


One of THOSE in our midst!

by matrixrefugee



Series: Cecie Martin [3]
Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 99,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrixrefugee/pseuds/matrixrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Phila and Bernie's double wedding, Cecie succeeds in turning their New England hometown on its ear when she brings Joe along</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King of the Road

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I had so much fun loosening up Philomena and Bernadette Connelly in "Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City" that I had to see what would happen if their equally straight-laced family encountered a certain green-eyed lover-Mecha. Georgette and Peter Connelly are dimly based on all the sexually uptight religious people I ever encountered or heard about (Okay, I'm a faith-filled Catholic Christian virgin, but I remember that I have a body!). However, this is not intended to bash faith-filled people in general, it's only intended as a mild wake-up call for the ones who forget they have flesh and feelings. Since I'm working on a few other fictions, keep an eye on this one, and "Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth", for new chapters each week (schedule permitting…). This first chapter was mildly inspired by Sapphire Rose's "Flash Before Your Eyes"; imitation is the highest form of flattery, Sapph! One last note: there is no Westhillston in western Massachusetts; there is a Hillston on the eastern side of the Berkshire Mountains toward the western end of the state, but it in no way resembles Westhillston.

Disclaimer:

I do not own "A.I. [Artificial Intelligence]", its characters, concepts, or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of Steven Spielberg, DreamWorks SKG, Warner Brothers, Amblin Entertainment, et al. I also don't own any of the incidental song lyrics that pop up from time to time.

Chapter I: King of the Road

"So the wedding's going to be in Westhillston?" Cecie Martin asked as she opened the planner on her datascriber.

"Yes, it'll be easier on everyone's wallets—and blood pressure," Phila Connelly said, sitting beside her on the other end of the couch in Cecie's hotel room-apartment in the Hotel Graceley, Upper Deck, Rouge City.

"Grandma Durosier won't have a heart attack from us dragging her here," Bernie, her adopted younger sister added, glancing up from the catalog of wedding dresses on her lap.

Cecie's hand, holding the stylus, hovered over the pad, waiting to either change the data for the month of September, two months away, or exit. "It wouldn't be so bad on the Lower Deck; we could have the Mass and the ceremony in a hall in a hotel."

"But then we really wouldn't be married," Bernie said.

"As long a priest is present to officiate as the Church's official witness, you'd be married, whether it's in St. Peter's Basilica with a Solemn High Mass or a private reception hall in the Paradise Garden Club," Cecie said. "Besides, it might do this old town some good. But if you do decide to change the location of the wedding, it might pose a few problems for me."

"How?" asked Phila.

"First consideration is transportation: I sold my cruiser after I got here."

"What made you do that?" Phila asked.

"I got tired of paying for a garage space on the Lower Deck."

"I'll talk to Kip; he was talking about driving up, maybe he could take you."

"I'd appreciate it, but I wouldn't want to be a burden to him."

"He'd do anything she'd ask him to do for her, or you," Bernie said.

"Bernie!"

"Second consideration," Cecie enumerated, "I'll need a date, and I had someone in mind."

"Oh no, not _him_ again!" Phila groaned.

Bernie screened her face with the catalog to hide the blush that came over her cheeks. "Everyone will mistake him for Frank. _I_ might mistake him for Frank, and he might take it seriously: then where would I be?"

Cecie thought to herself, _This is what happens when you accept a marriage proposal from someone who closely resembles your friend's best friend, on whom you had a crush_. But she said out loud, "Well, there's ways we can fix that."

"What, have Frank dye his hair a different color?"

"No, he won't have to do a thing."

"Couldn't you get someone else? Someone from Westhillston?" Phila asked. "Carton Jacobi was asking about you the last time we were home."

"Carton Jacobi? You mean the short kid with the psoriasis? The one who peeked up my skirt when I was working in the grocery store?"

Bernie looked up, eyes wide. "Did he?"

"I was standing on a step ladder. No, if I'm going to go with someone who's liable to eye me, I'd rather go with someone who'll be sure to stop if I tell him to."

A month and a half before the wedding date, and two weeks after Bernie and Phila had gone back to Westhillston, Cecie consulted her friend Vautrin, who worked as a record keeper for an agency in the City.

"Hey, Karl, can you cut me some slack on the fee for a certain someone?"

Vautrin squinted at her over his reading glasses. "You mean a certain someone with green eyes and a default British accent?"

"How'd yah guess?"

Vautrin shrugged one shoulder and grinned at her sidewise. "Easy. I tracked the calls on his pager. You really got something for him."

"We're just friends."

"That's what they all say about Joe. So what's the deal that you need a discount?"

"I need a date for my best friends' double wedding in Massachusetts."

"How many days?"

"About three and a half weeks, including travel. You could even put it in as 'training' for him, since it will expand his horizons. How far north has he been?"

"He's basically operated in the area in and around the City since they shipped him down here from Shohola, East PA when he was made new four years ago. You given him the fair warning?"

"I did last week. He liked the idea."

"He liked it because you asked him. I've been in this business fifteen years and I ain't never seen a Mecha take to an Orga the way Joe has to you. Trouble is, your friends picked a bad time for the wedding: at the height of the summer season, when we need every Mecha giving its 200%."

"The wedding's on the 3rd of September."

"You should know by the summer season here lasts almost till the beginning of October."

"The change of pace might do him some good."

"Unless _you_ got any ideas about our boy."

"Which I don't."

He kept a straight face as he cocked on Gallic eyebrow rakishly. "Then how to you explain the infamous New Year's smooch?"

"That was just a friendly kiss for luck."

"Did yer luck change?"

"I can't say."

"Why, might change for the worst?"

"It's privileged information."

"What _ever_ ," he muttered, grinning. He leaned over his hot desk and punched in a few calculations. "Weeeeeeehhhhhhlllll, since you're a friend and since you wanna have some cash left over to buy your friends each a decent wedding present. And since I'm notoriously too easy on the ladies, I think I can shave a few hundred off the fee."

"Thanks, Karl, you're not as gruff as you pretend."

"Hey, not so loud, I gotta keep up my image."

That evening, Cecie had her supper at a café around the corner from the Graceley, at a sidewalk table for one where she could watch the passersby.

Someone approached just out of her field of vision, took a chair from an empty table nearby and sat down. She looked up from jotting notes and turned to look.

Joe sat facing her, backward on the chair, his knees spread wide apart.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know."

"I understand we have a date next month?"

"Yes, like I told you, Phila and Bernie are getting married, and I want you to come with me."

He smiled but he quickly relaxed his face, his brows pinching slightly. "But will they object to my presence? Phila seemed utterly displeased with my attentions to Bernadette."

"I squared that away with them: they're resigned to the fact that I'm bringing you along."

"Perhaps then Bernadette shall be pleased that you are bringing me along." His eyes started to warm with anticipation.

"I'm afraid she won't take much notice of you: she's only got eyes for Frank Sweitz, her intended."

"So she has relinquished any interest in me? It will not be the first time I have been rejected by one of your kind." He turned his face away with his lower lip thrust out delicately, chin lifted at a prim angle.

"Hey, no pouting, Joe; on you it doesn't look good."

He relaxed his face and turned back to her, his face resuming its default look of genteel seduction.

"But there's one thing you have to know: Frank looks a lot like you—well, he looks enough like you that some people, especially with weak vision might mistake you for him."

"You know I can easily make the necessary adjustments to prevent confusion." He reached across the table and adjusted the angle of Cecie's mirrorshades. He lowered his head and shook it slightly from side to side: the color drained from his hair, leaving it a clear platinum blond. He looked up at her. "Would I now be mistaken for Mr. Frank Sweitz?"

"No, not now," she said, trying not to laugh.

Frank would arrive by monorail on the third Saturday in August, three weeks before the wedding. Kip and Cecie went to meet him at the station.

"So what does this guy do for work?" Kip asked.

"He writes for newspapers; he's been a foreign correspondent, but he's settling down in Albany, so he and Bernie can be close to her folks but not too close," Cecie replied.

"You met him?"

"I met him when I went up to Westhillston at Christmas; he's a good guy, sort of gets along with Bernie's parents."

"He's doing better than me in that department," Kip said with a mock frown.

"Why?"

"When I met the Connellys at Easter, Mr. Connelly kept asking me why I couldn't move to Westhillston. I mean, I could go most anywhere I wanted to, but I'd rather stay in the City. It was hard enough for my aunt, moving my mom for the trip to Westhillston, let alone on a more permanent basis."

"All told, I got the impression they didn't expect someone—pardon the obscenity—normal could come out of Rouge City."

"Yeah, we aren't all sex fiends here; the sex fiends just come to visit."

The monorail from St. Louis pulled up to the platform with a decelerating whir. The sliding doors opened, letting the passengers file out onto the platform.

A tall, dark young man in his early thirties stepped out, carrying a black laptop case. He looked up and down the platform as if he looked for them.

Kip nudged Cecie. "Did I just find out why Bernie's marrying this character?" he asked in a whisper.

"Why, because he looks like a friend of mine she had it bad for?"

"Yeah."

They crossed the platform. "Hey, Frank!" Cecie called. The dark young man looked their way with clear green eyes.

"Hey, Cecie! How yah doing?"

"I'm doing great; how have you been?"

"Trying not to sweat blood or be lovesick for Bernie. I got the call from the Albany Times just before I came out here, so be still my beating heart!"

She quickly introduced the two brothers-in-law elect.

"So the luckiest man alive meets the second luckiest man alive," Frank said.

"Which one's the luckiest?" Kip asked.

"You are, you got the older one."

"No, you're both equally lucky," Cecie said.

"Good diplomacy," Frank commented.

They collected the rest of Frank's baggage (the bulk of his things had gone ahead of him to Westhillston by freight) and went to Kip's apartment. Kip cooked supper for them using the last odds and ends in the fridge.

"Ellen, my aunt, wanted me to come along when she brought Irene, my mom, up to Westhillston," Kip said, stowing the last bags in the trunk of his cruiser. "I told her I wanted to drive and do a little male bonding with the guy who's marrying my sister-in-law."

"Aaaawww, Kip, dat's sweet of you," Frank said in a fake sugary voice.

"Besides, road trips are more fun than taking the train: you get to see more of the scenery along the way," Cecie said.

"You want a brief, PG-13 rated tour of the Upper Deck?" Kip offered.

"Nah, I was here about three years ago, covering a story about a party that had been going on for a year, nonstop," Frank replied.

"It's still going on," Cecie said.

Frank looked at her and blinked. "It is?"

"Yeah, I have friends who can't remember when it _wasn't_ going on."

"Sic semper Rouge City," Kip said.

"You ever get led astray by all that upstairs? I mean, you're a native."

"You'd think a native would. Don't worry; I'm not offended. I've been asked that question before. There's so much craziness up there anyway you get blind to it when you've lived here as long as I have."

"Uh oh, I hope that doesn't affect you and Phila."

"Nah, we'll do just fine."

"So departure is when now?" Frank asked.

"The bus leaves at 9.30 after the 8.00 Mass at Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart Chapel," Kip announced, clearing the table. To Cecie he added, "Does Joe know when we're leaving?"

"He'll be there sharp; he'll probably be at the rendezvous before us, knowing him and his precision," she said.

"He better not get distracted, you know how he is."

"He's had express orders to wait for us."

"If he holds us up, I'll think twice about helping him the next time he has a sticky job."

Frank looked from Cecie to Kip. "You in the habit of bailing her friends out?"

Kip looked at Cecie, who shook her head slightly. "You'll find out why tomorrow."

At nine-thirty sharp, Kip, Cecie and Frank sat on the running board of Kips cruiser parked outside the Lower Deck garage bay, waiting for Joe.

"He's already five minutes late," Kip said.

Cecie checked her pendant watch. "Give him another minute, he might have got held up by a demanding customer."

"What does he do for work?" Frank asked.

Cecie looked at Kip.

"What would you call him except what they call 'm?" Kip asked.

"Joe's in social relations," Cecie said delicately.

Frank's brows furrowed. "I haven't heard of that before: is it a new profession?"

Cecie kept her eyes from meeting the laughter on Kip's face. "No, actually it's very old: sometimes they call it 'the oldest profession'."

Frank's eyes widened, but then he laughed outright.

Kip looked up. "Here he comes."

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know—you're late!" Cecie called to the dark figure that approached them.

Joe paused before her. "You asked me to meet with you at this location at exactly nine and it is now exactly nine hours and one second."

"Not by my watch," Cecie said.

"May I then see it?" Joe asked.

She extended her left hand and let Joe take her wrist, turning her watch up for his perusal. "To gauge by my clock, you set this instrument seven minutes fast."

"C'mon, don't get uppity on me, Joe."

"Hiya, Joe, how's that weld holding up?" Kip asked.

"It is as if Phila had never struck my face," Joe replied.

Frank stood transfixed, his mouth hanging slack. He blinked, closed his mouth and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Kip and Cecie.

"Okay, who's holding up that mirror?" he asked.

Cecie looked from Frank to Joe: except that Frank's hair lay naturally over his brow and his clothes were plainer, you couldn't tell the difference between the two, especially if you squinted.

"Joe, what did I tell you?" Cecie hissed.

"I only wished to observe the similarity," Joe said. He adjusted Cecie's mirrorshades and lowered his head; his hair paled from black to a deep auburn that went well with his green eyes.

"Whew," Frank sighed with relief. "For a moment, I thought this was a doppelganger, y'know, a ghost that looks like you just to be annoying."

"I am hardly a ghost," Joe said, with a proud little smile.

They headed out a few minutes later, Kip driving, Frank riding shotgun with the maps, Cecie in the back with Joe at her side.

Kip set the radio for an oldies station as they rode into the highway tunnel that led out of the city, heading north toward the East Pennsylvania turnpike.

"Isn't it significant that the roads _into_ the city are there for all to see, but the roads _out_ are concealed, as if it were shameful that someone should leave," Frank observed, taking a handheld datascriber from his pocket.

As they shot out into the sunlight, the radio played Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild". "Hey, good travellin' music!" Kip cried, and turned up the volume.

"Get yer motor runnin',

Head out on the highway,

Lookin' for adventure

In whatever comes our way.

Yeah, darlin', gonna make it happen

Catch the world in a love embrace.

Fire all of your guns at once and

Explode into space.

Like a true nature's child

We were born, born to be wild

And we can climb so high

I never wanna die!"

Cecie glanced up from the binder of stories she'd printed out from the 'Net and eyed Joe. He leaned back in his seat, knees crossed, head cocked, listening with a look of bemused interest.

"So how far have you ever been from home? Frank?" Kip asked.

"A better question might be when was the last time I was home. I've covered stories everywhere. I've followed seal fishermen in the Greenland archipelago, done wildfires in India, covered dog races in Alaska, reported on street riots in Beijing—almost got my throat slashed then. But I've decided to settle as a domestic reporter. I met Bernie when I was laid up with a bug I caught in Tibet. She made me make up my mind to stay put."

"And you Cecie?"

"I did some traveling after I left college: went to South California, took an amphibicopter tour of Manhattan."

"The Lost City at the End of the World," Joe said with a strange reverence.

"That's what they call it, and I found out why: It's the most striking yet the bleakest thing I've ever seen, and maybe I'll ever see."

"And you, Kip?" Frank asked.

"I've been south to the Florida Islands to visit relatives, but I've spent most of my time in East PA and Rouge City. What about you, Joe?"

Joe bent his head, processing. "For as long as I can recall, I have dwelt in Rouge City."

Frank peered over the seat back. "I don't mean to pry, but how long is 'always' for you?"

"Four years, five months, twenty-five days, eleven hours, twenty minutes and seven seconds."

"Do you remember anything else?"

Joe was quiet, then he spoke. "Only white walls, a skylight overhead."

They made a few stops along the way, for food and fuel and other necessities. Toward nightfall, on the road around Albany they drove into a torrential rainstorm, which slowed them down considerably.

"There's a motel about a half-mile up the road," Frank told Kip. "It's a bit of a hooker hotel, but it's clean physically." He glanced over his shoulder. "We should fit in: we've got one hooker already, sort of."

Joe turned his face away, chin lifted primly. "Mr. Sweitz, I beg to differ with that term you have used; I am not a hooker: I am a gigolo."

"Uh, Frank, you just made him go into pouting mode," Cecie said.

"Oops! Sorry, Joe."

"I accept your apology."

Kip glanced at the maps. "How'd you know there's a motel up this way?"

"I came through this area when I was covering a string of serial killings. I toldja I've been everywhere."

A sign moved into view on the roadside. "The Blue Angel Motel." Kip turned the car into the lot.

The rain still hammered on the roof. "Guess we'd better make a run for it," Kip said, hitting the switch for the doors. They bolted for the motel office. Joe outstripped them all.

Behind the front desk, a frumpy bleached blonde with iron gray roots and an inch of makeup on her face looked up from her dog-eared _Playgirl_.

"We need a room for the night for four, with at least one bed separate," Kip said.

"We got one room with a double and a couch bed; you'll have to double up somehow."

Joe stepped closer to the desk. "I require no sleep." The blonde looked up at Joe; her eyes started scanning up and down his body acquisitively. Cecie passed her hand across Joe's eyes and moved her hand back toward her face. He turned to look at her, following her movements.

"We'll take it," Kip said.

"Sixty Newbucks," the blonde announced.

They ran out into the driving rain and dragged the bags from the cruiser. They ran to their room, but they couldn't dodge the wet drops splatting all over. They were drenched before Kip could unlock the door.

"Ugh! That is not even NICE rain out there!" Cecie yelped. Frank took his suitcase straight to the washroom and closed the door.

The couch bed turned out to be a species of divan with large removable cushions for the back. A small refrigerator stood at the head of it.

Someone knocked on the door. Kip opened it. The landlady came in with a plastic bag.

"Here's some clean sheets for the third bed," she said. Her eye went straight to Joe even as she handed the bag to Cecie.

"You seem lonely at your job," he said.

"Well, I will be in a few minutes when I go off shift."

"Shall I escort you back to the office?"

"Aaawww! Ain't you the limit! Sure thing, fella."

As they stepped out into the rain, Joe proffered the blonde his jacket.

Frank came out, now clad in dry clothes. He looked around the room. "Uh, where'd the fourth of our foursome get to now?"

"He found a customer already," Cecie said.

"That didn't take long," Frank said, flopping down on one side of the bed.

"Guess we won't see him for the rest of the night," Kip said.

"Why didn't you stop him, Cecie?"

"For starters, he was too quick for me. And you may as well tell the rain not to fall as tell Gigolo Joe to stay away from the ladies."

Frank sat up and looked at the one window. He grinned wickedly then got up and stuck his head out. "Hey, rain! Stop that fallin', y'hear me? Quit that falling _down_ stuff: let's try falling UP!"

Kip, heading into the washroom, started laughing out loud.

Later, after she'd changed and after she'd made up the couch bed, Cecie went into the washroom to spruce up before dinner—Frank had found a phone book in one of the nightstands and ordered delivery pizza. She heard him rummage about afterward.

"There's a phone book in this nightstand and one in the other one, but no Gideon Bible?" he asked.

Kip opened the drawer in the desk. "There's another phone book here in the desk, but I don't see a Bible, neither."

"What a washout! How'm I supposed to keep up my Bible-reading plan? I can remember to do it only when I'm traveling," Frank groaned.

She heard music on the other side of the wall. She pressed her ear to the wall and made out a few lyrics of a slightly tinny 1930s song—

"Are the stars out tonight?

I don't know if it's cloudy or bright,

'Cause they all disappear from view

And I only have eyes for you…"

She heard a girl let out a squeal and another, deeper voice that sounded very familiar spoke soothingly. He didn't have to go very far…

As she came out, someone knocked on the outside door. Frank, sitting on the windowsill, got up to get it, but Cecie was one step quicker.

A girl in a red halter-top and a black leather microskirt stood outside.

"Hi, any guys in there over age 18?" she asked.

"Not any that are interested in you," Cecie replied, closing the door.

"Aw, y'coulda let the poor thing in out of the rain," Kip said.

"Or you could have said, 'Yeah, you just missed him'," Frank added.

"Nah, he'd have passed, because she would. They're both in the same industry."

"They could have exchanged trade secrets."

The next knock came from the pizza delivery.

"Anybody have an idea when the pouting Mecha is likely to tear himself away from the ladies, because his knock is likely to be the next one?" Frank asked.

"He won't be back till the wee hours of the morning, when the business dies down," Cecie said. They didn't have any plates, so she had to tear the pizza box top into three sections.

Loud yelps of ecstasy penetrated the end wall of the room as they were eating. They stopped chewing and stared at each other.

"Home sweet home," Kip said, trying not to blush.

"Don't look at me: I don't run the place," Frank said.

"Speaking of which, can I ask you a personal question, Frank?" Kip asked.

"Shoot."

"Well, it's gonna sound bloody impertinent of me, but I just want to know what kind of man is marrying my little sister-in-law to be. Are you a virgin?"

Frank swallowed his mouthful and looked at his plate. "I've been celibate for three years now, and I've been immunized against seven major STDs, though not all of my partners were of the same make as me."

"Guess you and a certain someone have more than looks in common, sort of," Cecie said.

"That and the fact that Bernie is or was crazy about either of you," Kip said.

Frank looked at Kip narrowly. "How's that?"

"Oops, I guess I spilt the beans."

"Maybe you didn't. I got to thinking on the road: since Joe looks so much like yours truly, is that why Bernie's so wild about me?"

"Does it bother you?" Cecie asked.

"Nah, she hasn't hit on me, so I doubt she's hit on anyone else, let alone him. I wanted to, er, move quicker physically—not all the way of course—just enough to warm things up a little, y'know?"

"My turn to be impertinent," Cecie said. "Do Bernie's parents know you aren't a virgin?"

"Well, I put it in as sanitary terms as possible; I'm not sure they completely grasped it."

"They're phobic of that part of human nature."

"I got that impression from the first: I'm at the house at Easter, and I'm reading a newspaper, when I find this photo of a woman in a sleeveless dress that's been drawn over in black permanent ink pen so she looks like she's got a monk's robe or a trench coat on."

"Yeah, they used to get on my back for wearing sleeveless black blouses when I was in my late teens," Cecie said.

"Imagine if the girls had decided to have the wedding in Rouge City, the looks our in-laws would have on their faces," Kip said.

"Oh boy," Cecie groaned and started guffawing so hard she fell over backwards on the couch laughing.

"But I'd like to know how they feel about you and Phila moving back to Rouge," Frank asked Kip.

"They don't like it, but they're resigned to it."

Frank eyed Cecie. "But what's gonna be fun to see is what they're gonna think about having one of THOSE under their roof for three weeks."

"We'll find out."

They decided to save time by sleeping in what they had on, which made the whole set up a lot easier in some ways: no having to stop and get changed, just turn down the bed covers, kick off your shoes and plop down on the pillows. Except for Cecie: she'd made the mistake of putting her pillow on the end of the couch that abutted the fridge. She'd just settled down and dropped off, when she rolled over and—bonk!—hit her head on the fridge. She got up and rearranged the bed so the fridge was at her feet.

Toward daylight, someone knocked on the door, three precise knocks, the silence between the knocks exactly half as long as the sound. Cecie got up and stumbled to the door, looked out, opened it and let Joe in out of the mist.

"Did I awaken you?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, not really. I was worried, a little."

He pushed the door closed. "For me?"

"Yes, I mean, it's a strange town."

"But it is not so different from Rouge City: one finds lonely women everywhere."

She dropped onto the couch again and pulled the covers over her head. Joe perched himself on top of the fridge. She fell asleep dimly hearing the snick and whir of Joe unsealing a joint for self-repair.

She jolted awake. Frank had let out a yelping gasp.

"What?" Kip asked groggily on his side of the bed.

Cecie looked up: Joe, at eye-level, was engrossed in adjusting a servo in his knee. Frank sat up, staring at Joe, his face slowing relaxing with realization.

The Mecha looked at him. "Have you never seen one of my kind tending to self-maintenance?" he asked.

"No, I'm awful sorry; I didn't mean to stare."

"You have done no harm."

When full daylight returned, the rain still fell in sheets. The weather reports on the radio in the cruiser mentioned flash floods and road washouts. They decided to stay put until the rain let up. Kip, anticipating they'd have to drive late, got some extra rest. Frank called ahead to let the Connelly's know they'd be late.

"Could you put Bernie back on the phone? Thanks…Hey, Bern. It won't be long now, so if you could put your lips up to the earpiece…" He shielded the mouthpiece with his hands and made a sound like a deep kiss. "AhA! Gotcha laughing!…I'll see you then…God bless you, too." He hung up the phone.

"Perhaps she is not so fearful of the flesh as she has been trained to be," Joe said, eying Frank.

"Aw, I've tried to loosen her up. She's a good kid; we're both good for each other in our own way."

About noon the rain slackened and they headed out again.

"We'll be lucky if we reach Westhillston by dark," Kip observed. They had to drive slowly because of the water on the road; in a couple places they had to take detours because the road had washed out.

The day waned. The dark clouds set in again as the sun set unseen. Cecie could hardly make out her writing on the datascriber, so she saved her work and set the pad aside. She put her head back and closed her eyes.

Kip switched on the dome light for a minute and peered into the mirror, looking into the back seat.

Cecie had settled into her corner, her head rolled onto her shoulder, eyes closed. Joe leaned closer to her as if studying her face. He took off her glasses, folded them up carefully and put them into her breast pocket. He slid forward slightly, took off his jacket, and laid it over her gently. He turned his face to the mirror, his eyes finding Kip's reflection.

"How she doin' back there?" Kip asked.

"She has fallen asleep."

"We'll be there in maybe another ten, fifteen minutes," Kip said, watching the street signs.

"Halleluiah!" Frank said, stretching his back and shoulders.

The steady whir of the motor suddenly turned into a ticking sound. The cruiser hesitated and jerked.

"I don't like the feel of that," Frank said.

"Neither do I," Kip said

"You put a new fuel cell in?"

"Yeah, back near Albany, the contacts might have got wet."

Joe nudged Cecie. She lifted her head and opened her eyes. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"We're experiencing a little turbulence," Frank said, trying to sound like an airline pilot making an announcement.

The cruiser chattered over the road, the skips and hesitations got worse. Kip pulled it over the side of the road, but the engine cut out even before he switched it off. He reached under his seat for a repair kit and got out.

"The trip went too well," Frank said.

"You sound ashamed that our journey went well to this point. Why should 'too well' ashame you?" Joe asked.

"Well, sometimes when things are going smoothly and nothing has gone wrong, it's as if something wrong was supposed to happen to keep things from being too perfect," Cecie explained.

Joe processed this for a moment. "I cannot comprehend this. Why would perfect be a bad thing?"

"With a lot of people, too much perfection makes it hard for them to accept the things that are imperfect. For instance, that may be why you have that mole on the side of your neck, so you're not too perfect."

"I think I understand now."

Kip stuck his head into the open door. "I must have got a bad fuel cell."

"Why?" asked Frank.

"One of them is as dead as a doornail and I know I replaced it back in Albany."

"How far are we from the house?" Frank asked.

Cecie looked around to get her bearings. "About maybe a mile and a half."

Frank looked at Joe, then looked at Kip. "Think there's any way…?"

"Wrong kind of battery, not enough amps, either."

Cecie doubled her fists. "Besides, you'd have to get past ME to get at him."

"Well, there's only one thing we can do now," Kip said.

"What's that?" asked Frank.

"Get out and push her. Cecie, you want to hop in front and pump the pedals?"

Frank rolled up his sleeves and got out. "Hey, you gonna help us, Joe?"

Joe turned up his nose at this. "I was not built for such labors," he said with cold primness.

"Uh, oh, someone's stuck in uppity mode again," Cecie groaned.

"I think Frank and I can handle pushing the cruiser; it's only made of fiberglass and titanium."

"Yeah, but it weighs more with the baggage in the trunk. And with metal-boy taking it easy in the back seat!" Frank twitted.

"Want me to help you push? Joe can work the pedals," Cecie offered.

"So long as you instruct me," Joe cut in.

"Yeah, make yourself useful, yah bucket of bolts!"

A few minutes later, they got the cruiser moving again; once they got it in motion, it rolled easier than Cecie expected.

"'Trailers for sale or rent'," Cecie sang, remembering a Roger Miller song that had played on the radio earlier.

"'Rooms to let, fifty cents'," Kip joined in.

"'No phone, no pool, no pets'," Frank added his voice.

"Ain't got no cigarettes, aw but

Two hour's pushing broom buys an

Eight by twelve four bit room,

I'm a man of means by no means

King of the Road!"

As they sang the chorus a second time, Cecie thought she heard a soft, dulcet tenor harmonizing with them from the front seat.

To be continued…

Afterword:

This chapter almost concluded with the foursome arriving at the Connellys' house, but I thought I'd save their reaction to a certain handsome Mecha for the next chapter. Like I said, I'm going to be juggling this with two maybe three other fanfiction works in progress, and I have a few other, smaller projects that might appear on here from time to time. Keeping people in suspense is such fun.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Three phone books, no Gideon Bible—I made this dreary discovery in Room 807 of the Washington Square Hotel in Greenwich Village this summer.

The pizza box paper plates—My family and I had to resort to this once when we bought a pizza while staying at the beach.

The PG-13 noises on the other side of the wall in the hotel—I heard something not quite G-rated beyond the wall while I was taking a bath in the same hotel room in Greenwich Village.

The drawn-over photograph—True story: I found this very picture in a newspaper I borrowed from some straight-laced friends of mine; I had been trying to read an article on the backside, but some of the words were obliterated by the ink. Some people!

Cecie banging her head on the fridge while sleeping—I had the same misadventure with the same sleeping arrangement in a beach motel in Northampton, NH. Motels and hotels are inspiring…


	2. Under the Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in our Midst!

Chapter II: Under the Roof

Author's Note:

This is basically a quiet chapter, but more of the significant players show up; Spielberg himself described "A.I." as being, in some ways, three films in one: first part, a basic domestic drama; second part, a road picture, and third, the straight sci-fi. Chapter I of this was the road trip story, while this chapter is mostly a domestic drama-comedy cum house party.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I.

A half-hour later, they pushed the cruiser into the Connelly's driveway, which curved up to the house, a large, square-built Georgian affair of brick and stucco surrounded by stately old elms and oaks which still dripped water from the rain.

The front light went on, and Peter, Phila's dad and Bernie's guardian, came out. He paused for a moment on the steps, then came down the walkway across the lawn to meet them. He was of middle-stature and average Irish-American good looks, with bushy red-brown hair only just starting to yield to gray though he was well into his fifties.

"What happened to your car?" he called, pronouncing it _cah_.

"The fuel cell conked out," Kip called back.

"How far did you have to push it?"

"Oh, only half a mile," Kip said.

"Half a mile? It felt like two miles," Frank groused.

Peter preceded them to the carriage shed-garage at the head of the drive and opened the door for the cruiser. They pushed it inside.

"How are our girls?" Frank asked.

"They're doing well; one of the girls in the parish, Stephine Lock had a shower for them tonight, so they should be back soon. Cecie, did they make you push? Catholic men don't do that."

"No, I wanted to help."

The driver's door slid open and Joe climbed out of the front.

"Oh, is this your brother, Frank? You never mentioned him," Peter said.

Frank and Joe eyed each other and smiled, Frank with embarrassment, Joe with amusement giving way to something else.

"He's not my brother, he's, uh…"

"He's that good friend of mine I said I might bring along," Cecie intervened, quickly introducing them. Joe extended his hand to Peter with polite deference; Peter stared at it, looked at Joe's face and looked at Cecie.

"He's…oh no, Cecie, how could you bring one of _them_ here? He's dangerous."

"He is not; he wouldn't hurt a fly."

"But he's—it's—one of _those_."

" _This_ , if I may be so bold as to speak up in my own behalf, merely wishes to make his acquaintance with you like a proper gentleman," Joe replied, with an icy edge to his voice.

Peter finally let himself shake hands, but Cecie saw a note of disgust in the gesture; once released, Joe's hand swung back behind his thigh almost as if he would wipe it on his trouser leg.

In the meantime, Georgette, Peter's wife, had come out and joined them on the graveled drive; she was an ordinary-looking French-Irish-looking woman, past her young womanhood, but likeable-looking in a matronly way. "Oh, thank God! you got here safely; I was about to start my third rosary," she said. "Here's our young men, safe and sound." She hugged Kip and Frank in a motherly way, though Frank tried to bear hug her. She turned to Cecie and hugged her. "It's great to have you back here in Massachusetts."

"It's great to be back to see how the old place is holding up. And to see you of course."

Georgette turned to Joe, but she stopped short in front of him. "Oh, you must be Cecie's young man," she said.

"You might call me a man in form," Joe replied, smiling.

Georgette took a cautious step back from him as Cecie introduced the two of them; she put out her hand to shake his, but he took her hand, turned it over gracefully and, bowing over it, kissed it.

She retracted her hand a little too quickly. "That's sweet of you, uh, I mean, you don't see that anymore, except, uh, in antique movies."

Joe beamed on her. "You will find the antique and the modern nicely blended in me."

"Hmm, maybe I should try that trick," Frank said.

Peter helped Kip and Frank carry the bags up to the house. Despite Peter's covert look of disdain, Cecie insisted on carrying her bags herself, which Joe graciously helped her carry as he followed her up to her old room at the top of the house.

"This was my room when I lived here during my late teens, when my mother wasn't well," Cecie said, opening the door. Joe pushed it open and held it as she entered.

"So this marked the first of your ivory towers?" he asked.

"I guess you'd have to call it that."

The antique furniture had been dusted but not rearranged; the air had staled, but Cecie rectified this by opening the window. Joe came to her side and looked out with her, into the garden below.

"And the view must have supplied you much inspiration," he observed, looking back to her.

She glanced down at the damp, shadowed trees and bushes and the heavier shadow that was the roof of the carriage shed in the dusk below; he could see in the dark better than she could.

"It probably did, when I was writing light fantasy in my late teens."

"Shall I help you to unpack?"

"Well, thanks, but I think I can handle it," she said.

"In which case, shall I merely provide moral support?"

"Sure."

She'd put most of her things away in the chest of drawers and the closet when someone knocked at the door.

"Come in?"

The door opened a crack and Georgette put her head in, her eyes cast to the floor. "Cecie, could I talk to you out here for a minute in private?"

"Sure. Hey, Joe, could you stay put till I get back?"

"Of course."

Georgette led Cecie down the hallway a ways. "You didn't tell us you were bringing one of _those_ along."

"Like I tell everyone who doesn't know him well: there's more to Joe than just _that_."

"Does he—it—sleep?"

"No, but he goes into a quiet mode when he knows he isn't needed, just to conserve some energy."

"He shouldn't stay in your room in any case. We won't have you doing anything you shouldn't."

"He won't touch me unless I let him."

"That's just it: you might give in to the temptation."

"That's very unlikely."

"We don't want you to harm yourself morally."

"If it will make you feel any better, I'll tell him he'll have to stay downstairs. But I won't have any of you bothering him, am I clear?"

"It wouldn't be safe for me or the girls to bother him anyway."

"He's perfectly safe, he's safer than most flesh and blood men."

"Maybe you should break it to him gently. Why don't the both of you come down and have some of the gingerbread muffins we got."

"That's another thing: he doesn't eat either, though he'll come down with me."

"He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, yet he does…that. That's so strange."

"It's a strange world we live in." Georgette glanced toward the open door and retreated downstairs. Cecie went back to finish unpacking.

She found Joe scanning the titles of the old books on the built-in shelves set into one wall of the room. Since they stood lower than his eye-level, he had to stoop down gracefully to see them. He turned his face to her and straightened up as she entered.

"She does not know if she enjoys my presence or not," he observed.

"I don't think she does either; I'd like to think there's one part of her that likes you in spite of herself."

He smiled insinuatingly. "Perhaps I could do well to help her make her decision, yes or no."

"Peter would have your processors if you did."

He looked away, processing that. "In which case, I would do well to maintain a respectable distance from her."

 _Was that_ _a malaprop, a malfunction or just word play?_ Cecie wondered.

They went downstairs to the dining room, a half-formal, half-home-like room with mahogany furniture and a layer of clutter on any flat horizontal surfaces. Phila and Bernie had just come in laden with what Kip was playfully calling "loot": placemats and knife sets and can openers, which Georgette examined. But Cecie was surprised to see Stephen, Phila's older brother; not only had he come home, but he wore a plain white shirt and gray pants, instead of the old-fashioned coat-style cassock she'd seen him wearing last time.

"Hi, Stephen."

"Hello, Cecie."

"You're back from the seminary?"

"I'm out. I hadn't had a seizure in years, but I had a bad spell recently. So the Society of St. John let me go."

"That's too bad when you were doing so well."

"It's better that it happened now, when I'd only made first professions than later, after I was ordained. It's easier to laicize now than then."

"So what are you doing now?"

"Besides helping with the wedding preparations, I'm looking for a teaching job nearby."

"Steppin, could you help us get the rest of the stuff out of the car?" Phila asked her brother.

"Sure, Pillah," he said, following her and Frank out. Phila glanced back on the way out, as if she were checking to see if she wasn't followed.

"Your friends have unusual alternate names," Joe observed.

"They're what I used to call them when I was a little kid," Bernie explained, coming in from another room, not looking directly at Joe.

"You look well and as beautiful as always, I trust you have been doing the same?" he asked, looking at her.

"I've been busy," she said and started out.

"So is the loft over the barn—I mean the _bahn_ —gonna be the men's dormitory?" Frank asked, coming in with what looked like a rolled-up damask table runner, which he placed on the table. "Hey, here's my girl." He bear-hugged her around the waist, lifting her clear of the floor as she hugged him around the neck with one arm. He leaned his face to her ear whispering; her eyes widened and she slapped him. Peter eyed them with mild disapproval but he relaxed it somewhat as Frank set her down, giving Peter a not-so innocent smile worthy of Joe.

"Yes, Peter's aim isn't what it used to be, in case he heard you roaming about where you shouldn't," Georgette said.

"And, Cecie, your friend will have to sleep—I mean, stay up there with them. Is that clear?" Peter said.

Joe turned his gaze to Peter. "Mr. Connelly, may I be so bold as to make a small request? If you must speak in reference to matters pertaining to me, you would do well to speak directly to me."

Peter looked at Cecie, then at Joe. "All right, I hope you understand why you'll have to stay in the loft over the barn with the others."

Joe cocked his head processing. "You believe I have less than honorable intentions toward Cecie and your daughters."

"I'm taking your nature into consideration."

"Perhaps you would do well to consider that I will not approach any of them unless they themselves first give voice to their desires to me and of me."

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to adhere to our standards as long as you're here."

"Joe, don't try arguing with him," Cecie said.

Joe turned his face away in what looked like irritated resignation. "As you so insist."

Cecie didn't like the idea of Joe being banished to the loft over the carriage shed-garage. But her window looked into the unshaded dormer window on one side. As she sat looking out at the night later on, when they had all retired for the night, she saw a tall, dark figure pass by in the opposite window. No, it looked like Frank.

"I cannot understand what it is about me that obliges Mr. and Mrs. Connelly to banish me out here," Joe said to no one in particular, as he seated himself on the floor where he might be out of the way, in the angle created by the wall below the dormer and the dresser. He could see out of the window across to a lit window slightly above the level of the carriage shed. A shadow that reminded him of Cecie's form passed across the light, but at that distance, he could not tell. His visual receptors had been built specific for his specific function, which required close work, not distance.

"Yeah, it bites, but we gotta respect their wishes," Frank said, unrolling his bedroll on the floor under the window. "Look at it this way: we're all in the same boat: even Stephen has to sleep out here, all the time since he was in his teens, and he lives here!"

"Is that so?" Kip asked Stephen, unfolding a bulky Army cot at the foot of Stephen's narrow bed.

"It was really my decision. I was afraid Bernie would tempt me; we all get a little over-zealous with our self-discipline when we're young."

"Golly, and I thought I was the only one who went through weird scruples at that age!" Kip said. "But I suppose I had more reason to be scrupulous, all things considered."

"Yeah, that kind of environment's liable to make you either scrupulous or sick to death of that side of human nature," Frank observed. He looked at Joe. "I suppose you're really gonna go into uppity mode when Kip and I _finally_ get into the house ourselves, once we've tied the knot with our respective brides."

"Hey, Steve, could we borrow your door key and make a few copies?" Kip asked.

"I don't think we should; Peter might not like that at all."

"Aw, we aren't gonna use 'em for…y'know," Frank said.

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Stephen, may I ask a question regarding the topography of the house?" Joe asked.

"Well, I suppose…"

"Whose window is that, the one with the light above our level?"

"Oh, you'll be glad to know it's Cecie's window."

"Thank you." He turned his gaze to the window. "So close I sit, and yet she lies so far away."

"Mind if I ask you a personal question, Joe?" Frank asked.

"You may, I do not mind."

"How many women have you actually serviced?"

Joe lowered his head, his brows furrowed slightly with processing. "Three thousand, one hundred twelve."

"Ouch!" Stephen groaned.

"That's a low number if you've been at this for four years," Frank observed.

"I have many regulars."

"Has it always been women?"

"Frank, don't go there," Stephen said.

Joe ignored this. "No, and yet I cannot disclose this information. I gave my word, and a Mecha cannot got back on it."

"Ooh, is it safe for you to be up here with these impressionable young men?" Kip twitted.

"We're all comfortable with our masculinity, right?" Frank asked the other two.

"That goes without saying," Kip grinned.

"I almost didn't go into the seminary because a girl in the parish wanted to start going out with me," Stephen said.

"And may I ask what caused you to decide otherwise?" Joe asked.

"Peter didn't think it was a good idea."

Joe grew strangely silent after this. He turned back to the window.

At breakfast (after daily Mass at eight at St. Edith Stein's), Stephen made a small request to his father. "Could you let Joe stay here in the house? It's a little cramped up in the loft with the three of us, let alone four of us."

"Yeah, every time someone got up in the night, for some strange reason, they stepped on Joe's foot," Kip said.

"No offense, Joe," Frank said, already on his second cup of coffee, "but if I heard that scream of yours one more time, I was gonna scream myself. I don't mean this as an insult, but you sound like a girl when you scream."

"Oh, that explains the awful screams I thought I heard," Cecie said, putting gooseberry jam on her toast

"I beg to differ with you, Mr. Sweitz. I have been given a light voice, so therefore, my cry of pain would lie in the upper regions of an already high-pitched range," Joe replied primly. He sat beside Cecie, slightly away from the table, his chair backwards, but seated "side-saddle" at Peter's insistence. In a effort to help Joe blend in a little, Frank had loaned him a dark green flannel button-down shirt and a pair of khaki trousers; not surprisingly, they looked better on Joe than they did on Frank.

"He still can't stay in the same room with Cecie, if that's what any of you are thinking," Peter said. He eyed Joe. "Especially you, that is if you think."

"It is probable that I may think more efficiently than you."

"Uh, oh, someone rebooted on the wrong side of the start-up disk," Cecie teased.

"I suppose he can stay in the living room," Georgette offered.

Joe's façade of icy derision melted. "I would greatly appreciate such treatment. Thank you."

When Georgette and her daughters went out to order the wedding flowers, Cecie tagged along, with Joe accompanying her. She'd promised this would be the first stop on the grand tour of Westhillston.

At the florist shop, Bernie wanted to add a hint of color to the altarpieces, but Phila insisted they had to be all white.

"It'll look like black and white in the vids," Bernie insisted.

"What color are the bridesmaids' dresses?" Cecie asked.

"Lilac and silver brocade; I designed them," Phila said.

"In that case, you could add a few lavender powder roses to the altarpieces," the lady florist suggested.

While the others conferred, Cecie let herself wander through the shop, Joe at her heels. Except for the soft white noise emanating from his torso, he moved soundlessly among the sample plants and arrangements of dried and artificial flowers.

On one wall, in copper wire basket on a golden bracket entwined with fake ivy, Cecie spotted a sheaf of silver roses. She stretched her face up to them and sniffed at them out of habit. To her amazement, they smelled sweetly as real roses.

Joe looked at her with amused incredulity. "Do they smell of anything?"

"Whoa, yes. They smell just like real roses."

He leaned over to them and flared his nostrils delicately. He looked at her.

"They speak of a Turing test in regard to my kind. But this is the first time an artificial flower passed it on some level."

"And it fooled an artificial intelligence no less."

He eyed the flowers with a gentle sneer. "At least I do not look so artificial."

"Hey, Phila, did you say the bridesmaids' dresses were lilac and silver?"

"Yes, have you found something else?"

"Yeah, these silver roses."

Georgette and the girls came over. "My goodness! They are beautiful, but do they smell like anything?"

"They're a new kind of flower, the Argent Cavalier. They never fade, never lose their color, never lose their scent. They're ideal for preservation," the florist told them.

"The bridesmaids could wear headpieces with lilac and white roses and carry nosegays of those and some lilacs," Phila said.

"And perhaps the ushers and the men of the wedding party could wear a single Argent Cavalier as a boutonniere," the florist suggested. She eyed Joe with mild curiosity.

"We'll take them," Phila said.

Bernie looked at them suspiciously. "They're beautiful but they're weird."

Georgette and her girls went back to the house, but Cecie led Joe along Main Street, showing off the Norman Rockwell-esque bookstore she'd haunted, the stationary store, the antique store, the café where she'd read some of her early poetry, the thrift store where she bought a lot of her clothes, and the grocery store where she'd worked as a bakery clerk before she went on to college.

She led him inside, out of the warm sun. "I still have a few friends and enemies I think you should meet."

She led the way down the aisles, watching for a familiar ugly face. Ah, there it was…

A small man in his late twenties, clad in a dark blue simulcotton shirt jacket stood perched on two stacked up milk crates, restocking cereal and humming tunelessly under his breath.

"Y' need cookies, Carton?" she asked. The small man turned a swarthy, too-thin face to her.

"Hey, Cecie! Y' got some for me?" he grinned, which did nothing to make his face any less hideous.

"Not today, sorry."

"I heard you were coming home this week. How yah been?"

"I'm doing well, considering the Connellys."

"Oh yeah, I don't know why they even talk to me, you know how they are. If you've had anything sexual occur, even just lookin' at someone in the past thirty days, you're poison." He eyed Joe. "How'd you ever get away with bringing him along?"

She quickly introduced Joe to Carton, who could hardly keep from staring at her companion.

"Golly, is he one of them?" he said in an awe-struck voice.

"If you mean am I a Mecha? Yes, I am. And if you further meant am I a lover-model, the answer again is yes."

"Whoa, how is something, I mean someone like you holding up with them tight-a- Connellys? Oops, sorry, Cecie."

"Forget it, Jack, when you've lived in an NC-17 city for as long as I have, you don't notice that."

"They marginally tolerate my presence in their midst. I adjust myself accordingly."

"So I see you've come up in the world. You get that promotion?" she asked.

"Yeah, chief grocery clerk, only difference between this and front end supervisor is that I'm out of Diocletian's immediate line of sight more often. But that don't get me out from under his thumb."

"The whole store is under his thumb," she said. "Hey, you mean that expletive deleted deleteding deleted is _STILL_ here?"

"He'll be here till he's too senile to bit any more, like the last guy."

"I'll have to go say hello to him, from a safe distance."

"I better get cracking before he starts cracking the whip, an' I don't mean over my head." To Joe he added, "And uh, if you ever want a change of pace with work, how 'bout you and me switching for a day?"

Joe smiled astutely. "I am not optimized for your task, and you would lack the endurance and flexibility for mine."

"Nuts! Oh well, couldn't hurt to ask, eh?"

She led Joe along the perimeter of the store. They lingered in the produce section, where she got some kiwi and ugli fruits.

"If your employer employed such ungenial and even cruel measures, no wonder you left this place of employ," Joe said, taking her shopping basket.

"Aw, some of it was just joshing with Carton, helping him vent."

"Was he a former admirer of yours? He gazed upon you as if he were."

"He admired me, but I certainly didn't admire him. He'd dated and ditched every girl in the store except me. I wasn't interested after the third girl came to weep on my shoulder in the space of two months, after which he had the audacity to peek up my skirt when I was on a stepladder."

"Small wonder you lacked mutual interest! No gentleman does that if he wishes to win a lady's heart."

In the meat department, they came upon a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in an official-looking maroon suit jacket, who stood with his back to them, as if he guarded the case of cooler-case of soy dogs he stood beside.

"'Yer not the boss of me'," Cecie sang under her breath.

"Yer not the boss of me.

You may be the boss of you

But yer not the boss of me!"

She cleared her throat as she stood behind him. "The bakery's all clear, Mr. Diocletian."

He turned to them a handsome but unsmiling face.

"Oh, you're back in town, Cecilia?"

"Yes, I got here last night, drove up with Kip Langier and Frank Sweitz and my friend Joe here." She quickly introduced them.

Diocletian stuck his hands into his pockets, refusing to accept Joe's politely offered hand. He narrowed his indeterminate tan-khaki-hazel-murky green eyes at the Mecha. "And you brought this thing along. Go pay for your stuff and take that thing out of here. If you ever come here again with it, you'll have to leave it outside, or I will personally put it out for you. I can't have him seducing customers."

"He's less likely to find customers of his own as long as he's with me," she said.

"Whatever, just don't let me see that thing in here again." With that, he turned away from them.

"What a rude man," Joe commented, loud enough for Diocletian to hear as they walked away. "He lacks manners so terribly that he deserves to find his wife in the arms of something like me."

With an oddly innocent smile, he added, "Or, for that matter, she deserves me."

A part of Cecie half-heartedly agreed. "Just do as I do with him: stay out of his way."

But she could see why Diocletian had objected to Joe's presence: a few young mothers with whining preschoolers and screaming toddlers in shopping carts looked at him with barely veiled curiosity. The cashier, a woman named Denise, whom Cecie knew had divorced her husband just for something to do, kept eyeing Joe so much she almost rang the same item up twice. And she overheard some old ladies on the way out exclaiming among themselves.

"Is that Cecilia Martin?" asked Mildred Swank.

"It looks like her—oh, yes it is," said Clara Purvey.

"That isn't Bernadette's fiancé, is it?" asked Winifred Bax, whom Cecie knew was addicted to interactive soap operas.

"No, he's different-looking, better-groomed," Clara said. "Frank's a handsome scruff."

"Well, if I didn't have my glasses on, I don't think I'd think it was his twin brother," Mildred said.

"Maybe he's the long-lost twin brother Frank never knew about," Winifred crooned.

"Winnie, be sensible: the government keeps better record of all births now, so he'd know from public records if he had a twin or not," Clara said.

"Oh, it would just be more romantic that way."

Cecie stopped listening to this and turned to Joe: he had his head cocked, listening with something like barely concealed pleasure.

"I can understand why many of the townsfolk have found a fount of curiosity in me," Joe remarked as they walked home, he gallantly carrying the bag.

"What makes you say that?" Cecie asked.

He glanced at a metal body service droid trimming bushes at the side of the road. "I have seen very few Mechas in this town, certainly none like me."

"Massachusetts doesn't take much stock in lover-models like you, except maybe in the cities: New Boston, Lowell, Amherst. Our politicians may be liberal, but our people are still fairly conservative."

"Why do they not take much stock in my class?"

"Probably just plain Yankee thriftiness; what you have to pay a lot for may not be worth bothering with, and that may include your services, in theory."

"Then they lack an appreciation of the finer things in life."

"Quite the contrary: we had one of the first major symphony orchestras in the country, as well as one of the first major art museums, which were salvaged when the Atlantic started to rise, and taken to Worcester. The city was even renamed New Boston, so they could still call it the Boston Symphony Orchestra."

"But they lack an appreciation of one of man's finest works of art, made in his image."

They walked the mile back to the house. When they came in, Stephen was on the phone, calling rental places for chairs and tables for the reception, to be held in the back garden.

As Cecie stopped in the kitchen to store her fruit in the refrigerator, she found Kip arranging a tray for his mother, whom the Connellys had put in the back bedroom.

"How is she now?" she asked.

"Mum's awake and a lot perkier than she was last night. I think she finally got over the stress of the trip up here. She wants to see you."

"May I accompany you?" Joe asked innocently.

"Sure, she'd love to see a handsome face in her room for a change.

Irene was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine with a page magnifier when they came in. She looked up; her faded violet eyes smiled first as her face broke into a warm smile that quickly became a demurely kittenish grin: her eye was on Joe.

Kip had his mom's well-built frame; despite her frailty and the way age had pared her down, she had clearly been a sturdy-shouldered woman in her prime. Her hair had kept some of its red-gold color, which had paled to the color of iced tea.

"So the four of you made it up here with each of you in one piece. You, Cecie, and your young friend, it's good to see you both here. If Phila didn't clearly need my boy to crack that ice around her animal spirit, I'd almost like to see you marry my Kip; your writing would bring a little culture into his life. But his choice is probably better."

"I'm afraid I'd make a plaguey housewife: my landlord is always after me for not keeping my rooms like an operating room," Cecie said.

"Housework's a major part of it, but only boring and perfectionistic women let it dominate. Just keep the place livable, I always say. Y' gotta play with the kids while y' got 'em."

Her eye went back to Joe. "And it's especially good to see you: my eyes may be weak, but they aren't so bad they can't enjoy one of God's subcreations."

"Should they hear you, the Connellys would not agree with you; but who are they?" he said.

"Yeah, who are they?" She turned back to Cecie as Kip gave her the tray. "So have you managed to get yourself into the wedding party, Cecie?"

"I don't think I'd fit in: I'm too tall."

"Nonsense! It would break up the monotony." She darted a glance at Joe. "You want to snub those Connellys' noses, don't you?"

"It might not go over too well. Besides, I had dress made up special for this."

"Hopefully better than the lilac and silver things they're inflicting on the bridesmaids. Philomena showed me the design, and I told her it was nice but it was too heavy for late summer. But what about yours?"

"I can't say much because it's a surprise. But I'll let this much out: it won't be too heavy."

"Good, don't want you fainting in the middle of the ceremony. You might knock someone down if you fell. Most weddings always have some girl faint from emotion; you wouldn't do that: you're too levelheaded for that. But heat exhaustion you don't mess with."

"And even should she faint, she would have my arms to fall into," Joe put in.

"No better pair to fall into," Irene said, grinning. "How are you finding Massachusetts, young wight?"

"I find the landscape exquisitely simple, yet some of the inhabitants thereof require polishing of their behavior and manners."

"We met my old boss, who snubbed Joe," Cecie explained.

"Is that the Diocletian idiot Connelly brought here the first night? You weren't here of course, but Peter had this repulsive, self-possessed young whippersnapper. What's his first name? Shayford? Shaymuck?"

"Seamus," Cecie replied.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Perfect name for an Irish galloot."

"Mo- _ther_!" Kip snapped, grinning.

"He's the kind that give us a bad name, so let an old woman have the luxury of giving him his proper name." Then to Joe she added, "Should you ever cross his path again, don't let him forget he could find his wife eating out of the palm of your hand if he doesn't play his cards right by her."

"Now you're getting improper, mother."

"Speaking of improper: if Peter's so worried about our young friend corrupting his daughters, let him stay here with me. I'll keep him out of trouble and I'm too old to do more than admire him."

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Cecie said.

"Nonsense, we'd be good for each other. The young and the old always are good for each other, even when they're different species."

"If it brings you comfort, I would gladly be your companion, Mrs. Langier," Joe said. "And if it does your eyes good, you may look at me some more."

Later, as Kip took away the tray and Cecie had gone to check her e-mail, Irene patted the covers beside her. "You sit here, young fellow, and tell me about your intrigues."

"They're quite a pair," Cecie said to Kip as she helped him with the dishes afterward.

"And it just might be the icebreaker the Connellys need, if they could see she won't come to harm with him."

Supper was late because Peter came home late after picking up the next wave of family members: his brother Ferde, his wife Alice and their daughters Elizabeth and Sarah.

"Just make sure your Mecha stays away from Sarah especially," Georgette warned Cecie as she set the table. "She's only thirteen."

"Right now he's been keeping Irene company: she's been playing chess with him. Besides, Joe's programmed to filter out anyone below the age of consent."

"Well, in case he should somehow forget, don't leave him alone with her."

"He can't forget: he's better at remembering things than us, unless he has a memory wipe."

At dinner, the table was a little more crowded, but Cecie didn't mind. Sarah had complained of nausea from the hyperjet flight from Nova Angeles, so she had stayed in her room—Cecie's room, actually—which meant one less chair at the table that night.

Kip arranged another tray for his mother, which Joe graciously offered to carry to her.

"The thing's making itself useful," Frank noted. "I heard from Irene he caused a bit of a stir at the store."

"Hopefully not much of one," Peter cut in.

"Oh, you know how folks here in town are: newcomers always cause some flutter of curiosity," Cecie said.

"So what do you do for work?" Ferde asked Joe, who sat as usual beside Cecie on a turned around chair.

Joe smiled with mischievous innocence. "I must remind you that, per order Peter Connelly, my function must not be spoken about when there are ladies present."

"Oops, sorry. I keep forgetting."

Bernie sat unusually close to Frank that evening, as if she were trying to sit in his lap. They kept bumping elbows as they ate.

"Are you trying to eat out of my plate?" Frank asked her.

"No, I just want to be near you," Bernie said.

"Well, remember, don't get too close, save that for after the wedding," Peter corrected.

Later, as Bernie helped Cecie clear the table, she kept her eyes carefully averted from Joe, who hovered in Cecie's shadow.

After supper, after Georgette and Alice washed the dishes, they gathered in the living room for an old-fashioned chitchat.

Somehow, Cecie and Bernie ended up sitting side by side in the middle of one of the long couches, with Frank and Joe flanking them respectively.

"No offense, but those two fellows look almost like a set of matching bookends," Ferde said. "If you weren't of completely different makes, I'd think you were long lost twin brothers."

"Like, which one's the fiberhead—sorry, Joe," Frank corrected himself when he saw the look of amused disdain on Joe's swarthy face.

Later, as she was heading upstairs with him at her side, Cecie confronted Joe about this. "What's gotten into you? You've been acting very hoity-toity."

"At times your friends simply do not know how to handle the delicacies of dealing with my kind," he replied stiffly.

"I'll admit Frank can get a little fresh and Ferde can be crude at times, but they mean well."

"They would do better if they could learn to respect the sensibilities of another kind."

"You're doing it again. Can't you hear yourself talking?"

"Of course I can hear my own speech. That of course is as it should be, always proper; but many of your friends need to polish their speech in my regard."

"All right, you can vent to me, but no more getting prissy with other people, C-3PO."

"C-3PO? I beg to differ with you, Cecilia. Now you have given way to the same sort of speech."

She turned and stood in front of him, toe to toe, looking him in the face. "I'd like to know where your uppity switch is so I can shut it off."

He said nothing to this, but he looked away from her, his lower lip delicately thrust out.

"Is that supposed to be your way of beating me to the off switch?"

"No. If you cannot appreciate the pleasures of my company, I shall not speak."

"Listen, Joe. If you don't soft pedal the sarcasm, I will have you shipped back to Rouge City in an orange crate."

A ripple of self-concern passed over his face and it resumed its default expression. She knew she couldn't expect an apology from him, but at least he'd stopped being so starchy. For now.

She opened her door and peered in. The light was on; Sarah, a small thin girl with long wavy dark brown hair, sat curled up reading a book on the air mattress at the foot of Cecie's bed.

"Well, I guess I'd better say good night."

"Should you want me in the night, you have only to come down to the living room to find me."

"You know I won't. Good night, Joe."

"Good night, Cecie. Perhaps you shall dream of me."

She let him kiss her on the forehead, then she pushed open the door and went in, closing the door behind her.

She turned to Sarah, who sat gazing toward the door. The book she held had sunk into her lap.

"Hi, Sarah."

"Was that your gentleman friend?"

"No, that was just Joe; he's only a friend, though he is a gentleman."

"How can you be just friends with someone who looks like _that_?"

"Well, he's not exactly human, not a flesh and blood human."

"You mean he's one of those? How romantic!"

Cecie came closer and knelt down on the floor beside Sarah. "What's that book you're reading?"

Sarah turned it over. "Lavender Siddon's _Lifewater_ ; it's about a young princess who is visited at night by a dark stranger who might be a water spirit. You might like it."

"I've tried reading Lavender Siddons before, but I've never been able to read any of her books straight through."

"Why? They're all splendid in their own ways."

"The style struck me as a bit too flowery and honey-laden."

Sarah wrinkled her nose. "Oh that's because you write that dry stuff for grown-ups. I wish you'd write more fantasy like you used to; you wrote better then. You were almost as good as Lavender Siddons."

"Everyone's different. Everyone writes with a different voice and not everything appeals to everyone at every age. When you get to be as old as I am, you might find the stuff I've written not to be as dry as you thought. Have you read any of my stories?"

Sarah looked to the door. "Don't tell Uncle Peter."

"You have my word of honor."

"Swear by the sun and the moon and the Dog Star?"

"I swear."

"Good, then my soul is safe."

"You sound a little like Lavender Siddon already," Cecie said with a gently teasing smile.

Next morning, Wednesday, after Mass and breakfast, Peter had Ferde, Stephen, Kip and Frank start trimming the bushes along the edge of the yard, especially around the big lawn at the foot of the garden. Frank, in an effort to decrease the visual similarities between him and Joe had neglected to shave. Bernie chided him for it at first.

"You look scruffy!" she said following him out to the tool shed.

"I'll shave for the wedding, I promise," Frank wheedled.

"Well, okay," she said, eyeing him with suspicion.

"It's only me saying it, but the stubble makes you look a little like that early 21st century actor Guy Pearce," Cecie said. She had gone down to get some air in the garden and now she was heading back up to the deck at the back of the house.

"Really? Most people say I look like some British actor from the same time period. I can't think of his name," he said. He winked at Bernie. "Watch out, Bern, your friend is flirting with me."

"Hardly," Cecie said, going up the path to the house.

Sarah had finished the Siddon book the night before, now she came down to the back deck with one of her favorites. She found Cecie already there sitting in the shade, writing something on her scriber, her "friend" Joe sitting on the decking beside her chair in an odd way, almost like a statue: one knee drawn up, his arm resting gracefully on it. As Sarah approached, his eyes moved toward her and he turned his head to her. He stood up.

Cecie looked up. "Hi, Sarah."

"Hello, Cecie, you working on something?"

"Just writing in my diary for now. I also found an old story I never finished, so I thought now would be a good time to work on it."

"Oh? Why now?"

"It's a bit complicated, but basically it's about a fourteen year old boy who falls in love with his cousin when she comes back to town when she gets married."

"Oh, I could see why, I mean, with the wedding plans and all."

"What's that book you got there?"

" _The Princess Bride_. I guess that's an appropriate story, too."

"Mmm, one of my favorites."

"Really? I didn't think you like fantasy any more."

"I don't hate it, I just don't like it when the style gets overwrought."

Sarah had been trying not to look at Joe, but she felt him looking at her.

"You have not greeted me," he said at length. Was that a gentle note of reproach in his soft voice? She looked up at him.

"You don't have to stand," she said.

"I was about to proffer you a chair."

"Thanks, but that's okay, uh, why exactly did you stand up when I got here."

He looked at her with an almost teasing smile. "Is it not the proper thing for a gentleman to do when a lady enters a room, even if it is a room without walls, even if she is a very young lady, and even if the gentleman is not really what many consider human?"

"Well, yeah, I guess, but I've only read about someone doing that in books. Thanks." He sat down again only when she had sat down on the wicker sofa opposite Cecie.

She read for a while, but Joe's steady gaze got to her. Why build something that looked that gorgeous and that human and behaved like a prince if you didn't let it blink? She closed her book and got up to explore the garden.

Cecie glanced down at Joe, who sat looking down the slope where Sarah had disappeared.

"You don't have to stay here, you have as much of a run of the place as I do—except the proscripted places."

"Which being the ladies' boudoirs," he replied.

The garden was one of the few things the Connellys really splurged on. A flagstone path lead down to a trimmed tunnel of yew trees which in turn lead to a walled garden with a fountain in the center and a cast iron love seat set in an alcove overhung with climbing lateroses and flanked with stone urns of Aunt Georgette's new miniature hydrangea they called Blue Fairy. Sarah used to imagine the moonlight trysts in the novels she read taking place in a garden like this. A short flight of steps lead down to a small water garden with a Japanese footbridge over a lily pond, which you crossed to get to the big lawn Peter called the Bowling Green even though no one ever bowled there. The menfolk were at work here trimming back the bushes, so she went back to the walled garden.

She read a few more pages, but she felt restless and tired at the same time and the strong breeze kept blowing her hair into her face. Mama had told her this feeling was just a normal part of growing up, that all it meant was she was changing inside. She hated feeling like this. She set the book aside and looked for something else.

She spotted a thick-skinned dark blue playground ball under one of the bushes. She got up and dug it out.

She played "catch with God" for a while, throwing the ball straight up into the air as high as she could and catching it when it fell back to her. Cecie had invented the game years before when Sarah was little; "He always throws it back," she'd said. She was really big for this game, but as far as she was concerned, if you were too old for a little innocent fun, you were just too old, like Peter's friend Mr. Diocletian.

Somehow the breeze caught the ball and blew it off course. She ran to catch it; she'd catch it in a completely different way if it broke one of Aunt Georgette's plants.

The ball fell with a splash into the fountain and bobbed up to the surface. She sat on the basin and reached for it, but her arm wasn't long enough. She tried to find a stick so she could slink it back to her, but she couldn't find any. She sat down on the edge of the basin, trying not to cry as she gazed down at the water. The fountain trickling sounded like the voices of tiny water sprites giggling at her misfortune.

A dark reflection moved over the water, a shadow fell over the white graveled bottom. She looked up, thinking it might be Frank come up from below. She looked up.

Joe sat beside her on the lip of the basin, his unblinking eyes studying her face.

"You seem troubled, Miss Sarah. May I ask what troubles you?"

"I was playing with a ball and it fell into the fountain. I can't reach it 'cause my arm's too short and Mama told me not to get too messed up 'cause we got fittings this afternoon."

He smiled at her gently, reassuringly. "Have no fear, milady, I shall fetch it for you."

With that, he leaned out over the water and, extending one graceful arm, he caught the ball with one hand. He turned back to her and, with a graceful bow, handed the ball back to her.

"Thanks, Thank you," she said, reaching out to take it.

He looked up at her as she did so.

Their eyes looked into each other's, golden brown looking into green. He looked at her with a gentle blank look touched with something like curiosity. She smiled at him nervously. He smiled back with…what? Friendliness? Innocent interest? Or was it that look the princess saw looking at her when she looked into the face of the dark prince?

She looked away. "I better go back to the house," she mumbled. She stuffed the ball under the bench and hurried, stumbling, back toward the house.

She barely saw Cecie as she hurried into the house.

Sarah's face glowed bright pink with what looked like embarrassment as she came up the steps. She blundered across the decking and ran into the house, banging the door shut behind her.

A moment or two later, Joe mounted the steps, carrying Sarah's book, which he set on the table.

"Something happened out there," Cecie said, looking up from the datascriber.

"Yes, something very beautiful yet very strange has occurred." He described the incident in the walled garden.

"She let herself grow so bewildered, she forgot this," he caressed the book.

"She probably realized what you really are. She's at an awkward age, too. Too old for child's play, too young for adult work."

"And too young for love," he added.

"She's only capable of feeling emotions right now. She can't do anything more."

"And among those emotions is fear. That was fear in her face before she grew embarrassed."

"Not terror-fear; just 'Oh-what's-that?' fear. There's a difference."

"She has nothing to fear from me either way. On account of her age, I may not and cannot approach her."

"She doesn't realize that. To her you're like the rest of the adult male human population: fascinating yet fearsome. Add to this the fact that you are a different kind of human, and it compounds the matter."

"She can rest assured I cannot and may not touch so much as a hair of her head. I will have to assure her."

"No, just treat her with the same kind of deference you've been using around her. I don't want her getting any kind of weird ideas about the other half of the equation."

Joe had no appropriate response to this. He eyed the book on the table with interest. Glancing up to the door, he picked it up and opened it.

Cecie and her friend cam in for lunch just after Kip and Frank and Stephen and Ferde came in. Frank looked less like Cecie's friend than ever: leaves and twigs stuck out of his hair.

"I thought I'd go for the 'wild man from Borneo' look," he said.

"You'd better comb that stuff out outside; I don't want you to get ticks from that stuff," Georgette said. "Besides, don't you have a fitting this afternoon?"

"Whoops! Slipped my mind," Frank said, going out.

Sarah had been calmly making a soynut butter sandwich in the kitchen when she heard an odd noise, somewhat like a computer tower nearby. She looked up.

First she saw her book held in someone's shapely hands. Then she looked up into the face of Joe the robot.

"You left this outside," he said.

"Uh, thanks."

"You are quite welcome, Miss Sarah."

She took it from him: her hand brushed his fingertips. Something like warmth crept up her hand and up her arm. She dropped her sandwich on the floor; she felt her face start to burn. She fled up to Cecie's room.

"What could I have done to elicit such behavior?" Joe asked Cecie.

To be continued…

Afterword:

Kubrick aficionados, I am not really trying to make this a _Lolita_ crossover; I unwittingly crossbred this with a gender-bent version of an unfinished short novel, "The Guest at Cana", a coming-of-age story about a fourteen-year old boy who becomes infatuated with his older cousin on the eve of her wedding. If anything, there may be a mild homage to Jim Henson's _Labyrinth_ going on here, with Sarah as a parallel to the young Jennifer Connelly character, and Joe as a hemi-demi-semi-stand in for the Goblin King.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Gingerbread muffins—Fake product placement! I wish you all lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area so you could try the best gingerbread muffins with cream cheese icing in the world, courtesy of the Gingerbread Construction Company of Woburn, MA.

Argent Cavalier roses—This is a veiled reference to the symbolic silver rose that appears as a love-token in Richard Strauss's high comic opera _Der Rosenkavalier_ , but this also leads back to "A.I.": the famous waltz melody from the opera was used in the soundtrack of the film, at the beginning of the Rouge City sequence (it also plays over the main menu of the second disc on the DVD).

Carton Jacobi and Seamus Diocletian—At the risk of being accused of a Mary Sue, these are thinly disguised versions of a former co-worker and a former boss of mine, respectively. Some things in Cecie's story are autobiographical after a fashion, but Cecie Martin and I are very different people: she's a lot more self-sufficient and a little tougher than me. The real "Carton" was a philanderer, and if this story were a film version, you could cast Brendan Gleeson (aka. "Lord Johnson-Johnson" to us Mecha-huggers) as Diocletian.

"You may look at me some more"—an outright thievery from Lewis Padgett's hysterical short story "The Proud Robot", which also stars an uppity robot named Joe…a nuts and bolts one, I should add.

Worcester—pronounced "Wooster".

Frank's disheveled appearance—Got the idea for this image after reading an article on Jude Law in a recent issue of _Vogue_ magazine, which featured a photo of our boy unshaven. Much as I'm obsessed, I think he looks better without the five o'clock shadow.


	3. Princess Brides, Enchanting Ladies...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I had some minor delays in getting this out, because I hadn't finished the chapter and I was trying to get the next installment of "Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth" out to you (I hope you're all doing well juggling my stuff). I'm trying to get as much stuff as possible out this week, since I will be starting a Real Job next week; okay, it's inspecting fresh-picked corn (pronounced " _cohn_ ") for the farm where my dad works, but at least it's gonna bring me some money, so I can FINALLY see _Road to Perdition_ (I don't drive, so I have to rely on buses to get out of town, and this might take some figuring out of bus schedules and trying to get them to click with the movie times, plus the fare just Went Up.). Plus, it's been beastly hot and humid, and I live on the second floor, so it's been too warm to type lately; I even started wishing I'd set this story in winter, instead of late summer. Please, Lord, let me get a chapter of this, another chapter of my _Truman Show_ fiction (If you're reading this, fom4life, have you read it?), and maybe a couple other things out this week! Another quiet chapter, but there's a surprise in it that even I didn't see coming.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I don't own the quote from _The Princess Bride_ (the novel, not the movie), either, which belongs to William Goldman.

Chapter III: Princess Brides, Enchanting Ladies…

After lunch, Phila prevailed upon Cecie to go with the girls to the bridal shop. Frank and Kip and Stephen had shanghaied Joe and brought him along to the formal attire shop in Amherst for a fitting, though Frank kept insisting they only had to make two orders in his size.

"I really didn't have to come along," Cecie said, as Georgette led them into the shop.

"Oh, it's just part of the female side of the pre-wedding ritual; you used always talk about how life is supposed to be more like a ritual than a rat race," Phila said.

The other bridesmaids met them in the shop: Terez Bax, Margi Donne, and Bernie's best friend since junior high school, Priscilla Machan.

"So who exactly is the maid of honor?" Cecie asked, while Alice and Sarah were in the fitting room with Miss Amarinta, the seamstress.

"We were going to ask you," said Phila.

Cecie felt her cheeks grow warm. "Oh, no, I really couldn't. I've already ordered another dress."

"You can wear that one then," Georgette said.

"I don't know if I could; the colors won't match your scheme."

"Why, what colors are they?" asked Terez.

"Black and silver, I designed the dress myself after a pattern, and I had a friend back home make it up for me; it should come by UPS any time soon."

"Goth colors—oops, sorry," said Priscilla.

"Aw, no problem; I'm the one who calls myself a goth."

"So is it true that you've brought along a special someone?" Terez asked. "My grandmother was gushing about how she saw you in the market with him."

"Well, he's someone special, but he's not a special someone, if you know what I mean. "We're just good friends, Joe and I."

The white louvered doors of the fitting room opened. Sarah glided out as if she treaded on a carpet of flowers. The lilac silk bridesmaid's dress she wore looked exquisite, with an Empire waist encircled with a sash of silver satin and a soft gray chiffon overlay on the skirts, and long sleeves with a high collar. Irene had spoken the truth: it looked a little too warm to be practical even this late in the season.

"Isn't it _beautiful_?" she gasped, tears in her eyes. "I feel just like a princess."

"And you look like one, too," Margi said.

"A princess bride?" Sarah asked, hopefully.

"More like a princess bridesmaid," Georgette said, trying not to sound too practical.

"She couldn't be a princess bride in lilac; she'd wear white if she were a virgin," Bernie said, a little too hastily.

"My first grown up dress," Sarah sighed.

As the others took their turns in the fitting room, Cecie turned to Phila. "Be honest with me: do you really want me to be the maid of honor?"

"We couldn't think of anyone better; you've always been like an older sister to us. If it hadn't been for you, we wouldn't be getting married."

"Me?"

"Yes. You helped us when we got stuck in Rouge City; I might never have met Kip and Bernie might never have learned the nerve to be friendly toward a young ma. She and Frank might not be together if you hadn't helped us out."

"If Joe heard you say this, he'd be taking credit for Bernie loosening up." She nearly added, 'In some ways, all this couldn't be happening now without his part in the comedy,' but she knew better.

"Really, Cecie, he had nothing to do with it."

"You may be right, but the All Mighty sure likes to some really odd means to continue the ritual of life."

"But, honestly, would He really make use of…something like Joe?"

Cecie shrugged and smiled mysteriously. "He just might."

Sarah couldn't stop chattering about the bridesmaids dresses all the way home. Cecie, who sat next to her in the cruiser, bore it patiently.

They found the menfolk had already returned ahead of them, and had collected on the deck, waiting for the heat of the day to pass so they could go back to clearing brush—those who were optimized for clearing brush, that is.

Joe sat slightly to one side of the group, on the decking, his face bearing an oddly triumphant little smile.

"Now what's with the cat that ate the canary smile?" Cecie asked him.

He glanced at Frank first, then he said, "Bernadette's intended one could tell the reason to you much better than I could."

Ferde poked Frank, grinning wickedly. "Go on, tell 'em, tell 'em."

"I thought getting a fitting for Joe's tux would be simple, right? Use the same exact measurements, right? No such luck. Okay, we got the same arm and leg measurements, but come to find out Joe has a thirty-five chest and a thirty-four waist."

"And Frank's got a thirty-six and a thirty-seven respectively," Ferde cut in. He poked Frank irreverently on the waist. "Guess you better go cut some more brush and work off that puppy fat."

"Oh get going!" Frank grumbled. "I'm not gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"I'm afraid not," Kip said with amused sympathy.

"The discrepancy of sizes stems from out different natures," Joe stated, matter of factly. "You have natural imperfection and an average build, whereas, they designed me with the proportions of a man with perhaps one percent body fat—"

"And two hundred percent vanity. If you don't cut the self-importance, Mecha, I am so gonna find the off switch for your mouth," Frank interrupted.

Joe said nothing more, but the smirk did not leave his face.

"Maybe Miss Amarinta can make up another dress in Cecie's size in time for the wedding," Peter said at supper that evening.

"Dear, the maid of honor has to wear a dress of a contrasting color," Georgette said.

"Well, what color is the dress you had made up?" Peter asked, looking at Cecie.

"It's black and silver, I had it made up from a pattern I modified slightly," Cecie said.

"I suppose those colors will contrast with the lilac and silver," Peter said, with mild suspicion. His eye rested on Joe, who for the evening had resumed his usual black and silver garments, minus his jacket.

"Isn't it bad luck to wear black to a wedding, or for a woman in the wedding party to wear black?" asked Alice.

"Oh, that's just silliness," Georgette said.

"It's also superstition; there's no such thing as luck," Peter said. "There's only Providence."

"I think there's a German proverb that says luck is the penname of Providence," Cecie said. "But wasn't there someone in the parish who put black dresses on the bridesmaids?"

"It was Shay Diocletian's sister in law," Georgette recalled.

"You didn't choose the black and silver to match with the colors your friend wears?" Sarah asked Cecie later, as they both got ready for bed.

"No, I just chose 'em 'cause I like 'em and because I thought they'd look different. You know how everyone wears pastels and stuff like that to weddings; I thought I'd dare to be different."

"I still think you chose them 'cause Joe wears them."

Cecie leaned over the foot of her bed. "Do I detect a little infatuation with the green-eyed beauty?"

"Maybe you're infatuated," Sarah said, dodgy-voiced.

Cecie took this astutely. "Nah, you'd know if I was infatuated. I certainly wouldn't be up here, that's for sure."

"You mind if I read fort a while?" Sarah asked.

"No, go ahead. I was about to ask you if you minded if I wrote for a while."

"Sure. A late night now and then won't hurt me."

"I won't keep you up long; your mother might not like it if I kept you up too late."

Cecie worked for a while on the story she'd picked up, no easy matter at first since she had to retrace the thread of the plot. One good point in creating unforgettable characters: they could "help" you pick up your story where you had to leave off.

At 22.30, she set aside her scriber, took off her glasses and leaned over the foot of the bed. "Is this too late for you?" Cecie asked.

Sarah lay on her side trying to keep her book propped up, her eyes blinking to stay open. "No," she said sleepily. "I could read another page or two."

"Well, it's time I put out the light for my sake, if not yours," Cecie said, not buying Sarah's excuse, but not letting on that she didn't. She got up and shut off the light, then edged around Sarah's pallet bed, back to bed.

Sarah lay trying to keep awake, listening to the night sounds, the crickets chirping, the twitter of a sleepy bird, the whir of the fan, the swish of the curtains as a breeze flowed in through the open window, fanning her face, carrying the scent of flowers

Her mind got to wondering and wandering. This was the kind of night the dark prince came to hold tryst with the maiden, in a moonlight-silvered glade deep in the palace garden, away from the her father's prying eyes.

She stirred on the mattress, feeling its area. Cecie breathed quietly, peacefully. How could she sleep so soundly on a night like this? Because she had found someone? Did she ever know the kind of pain Sarah felt needling her heart?

She let her eyes close, wishing the breeze that touched her face was the caress of an admirer.

Wind washed through her imagination, stirring her cascaded hair as she lay on a stone bench in a clump of flowering bushes bearing jasmine-scented blossoms.

The shadows seemed to move and sway. A dark figure separated itself from the deeper shades and approached where she lay. The wind stirred the ground-sweeping black cloak it wore. The heavy draperies blew aside. A pair of gleaming silver-feathered wings unfurled from the folds, forming a hood over the stranger's head, shading it from view as the figure drew nigh—

She jolted awake. Daylight was just breaking over the tree tops framed in the square of window. She turned over and pulled the covers over her head, wishing the darkness might linger and that she might see the face of the dark stranger with the bright wings…

At breakfast, Georgette tried to make old-fashioned toaster waffles, but the toaster refused to work. She popped it down, but the waffles refused to pop up. It wouldn't toast either, it simply wouldn't even warm up.

"Well, at least it isn't burning the waffles," Stephen said, optimistically, fiddling with the dials.

"Trouble is, I'd like to get something solid inside of me before I get out there," Frank said, eying the coffeepot a third time. "Make that solid and edible."

"Yeah, let's have breakfast while its still cool so we won't have to work out there in the heat," Ferde said. He looked at Joe. "Maybe you could pull your weight for a change; heat don't bother you, right?"

Joe turned up his nose at this suggestion. "If you require assistance, you ought then to hire a service droid. As I have stated before and will now restate, I am not optimized for such labor."

"Cecie, your friend is a real pain in the butt," Ferde said.

"I beg to differ with so uncouth a statement," Joe retorted.

"I wonder if the toaster caught the uppity bug from Joe," Stephen suggested.

"Hey, Joe, I thought I told you not to play along when the toaster started winking its LED at you," Frank twitted.

Joe received this remark with a smirk of sardonic amusement. "Even a smart toaster such as that could neither appreciate nor understand that of which I am capable."

Cecie examined the outlet. The plate over the socket hung slightly awry; only one prong of the plug made contact inside the socket: the other prong had gotten stuck in the gap between the socket and the plate. She pulled out the plug, straightened the plate and thrust the plug into the socket. After a second or two, the toaster warmed up and the heat wiring glowed orange.

"Someone put the plug in wrong," she said.

"In which case, it had utterly nothing to do with me," Joe added, vindicated.

"I still think Mr. Uppity Mecha had something to do with it," Ferde said, as Georgette took the waffles from the toaster and put them on a plate to hand them to Frank. Bernie, her eyes averted, loaded up the toaster.

Cecie eyed Joe. "I've got a hypothesis worth testing. Joe didn't start acting uppity until he went for the auburn mode. Maybe," she tapped his elbow, which got him to look right at her. "Maybe you should go back to basic black and we'll see what happens."

"Yeah, you'd have to be as blind as a post not to see the differences between us now," Frank said around a mouthful.

"At your insistence," Joe said. He focused on his reflection on the side of a stainless steel pot hanging from a rack on the wall, bent his head, and shook it slightly. His hair darkened to its default shade.

He looked up, chin lifted at a cocky angle.

"Satisfied now?"

"It didn't work," Bernie groaned.

That afternoon, Phila and Bernie went to another bridal shower, while Cecie and Sarah stayed put at home, in her room, the one writing, the other reading.

"You gonna let me read your story when its done?" Sarah asked.

"Maybe. I thought you said my recent stuff was dry and boring?"

"Maybe this one won't be, it's about a young person, right?"

"It has to do with a kid in his early teens."

"It might help me grow."

Sometime later, Cecie went downstairs to get herself another seltzer mimosa; Phila and Bernie were in the kitchen mixing lemonade. Cecie went to take a peek into Irene's room, where she found the older lady taking a nap, with Joe sitting beside her pillow, his hand laid on her head in a gesture of tender protection.

On her way back, Cecie glanced out the kitchen window to see a UPS vancruiser pull up in the driveway.

"I'll get it," she said, heading for the back door and opening it.

A young but non-descript UPS man stood under the overhang, out of the sun, with a large flat box at his feet and a data pad in his hand.

'Is there a Cecie Martin here?" he asked.

"That would be me," she said.

He held out the datapad. "Sign here, please?" She signed and he handed her the package.

"It's come," she said, grinning to Phila and Bernie as she passed through the kitchen.

"What's come?" Phila asked.

"My gown," Cecie replied and headed upstairs.

Sarah sat on the foot of Cecie's bed, drawing, when the door opened and Cecie came in with a large flat box.

"It's here," Cecie declared.

"Your dress?"

"Yess," Cecie said, opening the box. She kicked off her shoes.

"Ooooh! Put it on! Put it on!"

"Okay, now close your eyes." Sarah shut her eyes, but she couldn't help cracking one open as Cecie pulled off her tee shirt and pants, just to look enviously at Cecie's narrow waist from the back. She squinched her eyes shut; Uncle Peter would not approve.

After several minutes, Cecie said, "Okay, you can look now."

Sarah opened her eyes. Cecie stood before her clad in a waltz-length gown with wide silver satin skirts and a black bodice trimmed with silver. The neckline was scooped out, not so low that you saw anything you shouldn't except a smooth patch of white skin like a clear sheet of white metal.

"Wow, that's really nice…but you _show_."

"Not much, just enough to get Peter foaming at the mouth and turn a few heads, but not enough to be improper."

"Where'd you get it?"

"I found a pattern online and I dithered with it a little to make it somewhat reminiscent of the dress worn by the mysterious lady in the famous painting _Madame X_."

"Oh," Sarah said with confused wonder. "I never saw that one."

"I'll find you a picture of it online. It caused quite a stir when the artist, a fellow named Sargent, showed it in a gallery in England back in the 1880s."

"If it looked something like this, I bet it did. You look like an enchantress. But…what about your glasses?"

"I'm getting contacts for the wedding day. Add a few finishing touches: a few Argent Cavalier roses in my hair, my silver choker."

"You'll look utterly bewitching. Are you gonna show this dress to anyone?"

Cecie had unhooked the back. "Not today, not till the wedding day. I'm keeping it a surprise for everyone."

"Even Joe?"

"Especially Joe."

"If only he were human, you'd utterly bewitch him!"

Cecie's face turned slightly pink. "I might bewitch him anyway. Now not a word about this dress to anybody."

"I swear by the sun and the moon and the Dog Star!"

"Okay, Lavender."

They had two extra places at the table at supper: Kip's aunt Ellen (His late father's baby sister) and her son Mat. Joe had to relinquish his chair beside Cecie, but he contented himself with sitting on the floor beside her.

"You're taking this well, fiberhead," Frank commented.

"If a lady should have need of the chair I have occupied, I give it to her with all honor due to her sex," Joe replied. He glanced up at Ellen, who sat in the place he had occupied; she pretended not to notice him, but when he turned away to gaze on Cecie, she looked down at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Maybe your hypothesis was right, Cecie," Kip hinted.

Mat kept glancing from one side of the table to the other, from Joe to Frank and back again. "Mind if I say somethin'?" he asked.

"If you're in the habit of making improper jokes, I suggest you curb it," Peter said.

"All I was gonna say is, it's good Frank and Joe are at other sides of the table an' Frank's been holding off on the razor, or I'd think I was seein' double," Mat said.

Cecie had an odd feeling this wasn't exactly what Mat intended to say. His eyes had been dancing too much and he'd glanced impishly at Bernie a couple times. Bernie sat demurely beside frank, not looking up from her plate.

In the middle of that night, Cecie awoke to a clap of thunder. Lightning flashed in the window, around the edges of the drawn shade. She got up and put on her robe. She leaned over Sarah to check her; the younger girl lay sleeping unconcernedly. Cecie went downstairs to the living room to ride out the storm.

The room lay in velvety darkness. Dim light showed in the French windows opening onto the deck. Lightning flashed, flooding the panes, glinting off Joe's calm face as he stood just inside the doorframe. The light gleamed weirdly off his irises. They seemed to glow for a few seconds after the lightning passed. She switched on the room light.

He turned toward her. "Has the storm's fury disturbed your slumber?"

"I'm afraid so, in more ways than one. Sarah's sleeping like a stone; storms don't bother her: she thinks they're romantic."

"And what of you? What do you think of a thunderstorm?"

"They're exciting and majestic during the day, but at night they're a little too scary. Too much noise and the light's too bright, so I can't sleep and every time I try to go back to sleep, I can't.

"But what do you think of thunderstorms?"

He gazed out the window as another flash lit up the grid panes of glass. He bent his head, processing.

"They possess a strange, raw beauty all their own, more to be respected and feared than delighted in."

"I suppose your kind must regard lightning with a kind of religious awe."

His face went slightly blank for a moment. "I do not think we could. We Mecha barely enter into the natural, much less the supernatural. You worship the One Who made you; if we were to worship anything, it might be your kind; but you have been very fickle gods."

"Am I? If I were—which I'm not—I'd try to be just."

"No, you are steadfast. Were I programmed to reverence anything, I would devote myself to some being like you."

"Thanks," she said, blushing.

She lingered downstairs until the storm abated. Joe insisted on escorting her back upstairs. At her door, he suddenly got down on his knees and kissed her foot and the hem of her robe.

"Don't do that!" she hissed in earnest, trying not to laugh.

He smiled up at her mysteriously. He rose only when she opened the door and went in.

The rain still fell the next morning, a Friday, not as heavy as it had last night, but enough to put a damper on things.

"Well, we're not trimming brush today," Frank observed at breakfast.

Phila brought in the paper, damp but legible. Cecie unfolded it and scanned it.

"Did the storm wake you up last night?" Alice asked Sarah.

Sarah looked up from her cornflakes. "There was a storm last night?" she asked. "Darn, I missed it."

"I guess that means no," Kip said.

"Anything new in the news?" Phila asked Cecie.

"Watch out, I'm one of those weird types who read the entertainment news first, see what my critics are saying about the stories I put up online recently," Cecie replied.

"Any good movies?" Kip asked.

"Any clean movies?" Georgette put in.

"Today's a good movie day," Frank said.

"The Zoetrope is showing the Lord of the Rings, all three films back to back, uncut, with two one hour intermissions today," Cecie announced.

"Really? I haven't seen that," Bernie said.

"Is it decent?" Georgette asked.

"It's squeaky clean," Cecie said. "If you can put up with swordfights and scary-looking things, it's great."

"One of my favorites," Sarah said. "Can I go if they're going, Mom?"

"Do you think you can handle it all at once?" Alice asked.

"I was gonna do it with the DVDs one time but I never had enough time."

"Is it a go?" Cecie asked.

"Oh yes!" Sarah said right away.

"Sounds great to me," said Kip.

"I've been meaning to see in and we've got nothing better to do," Frank said. "Bern?"

"Well, as long as it doesn't get too creepy," Bernie said.

"I'll hold you hand so you won't get scared, how's that sound?" Frank said.

"Since Kip is going, I'm going," Phila said

"Darn, I forgot my bow and arrow," Mat grumbled.

"Oh, are you one of that type of LOTR movie nut? We did that in college," Cecie said.

"Did what?" asked Phila.

"Dress up like characters from the movie, bring bows and arrows and shoot 'em at the screen every time one of the bad guys or some nasty creature showed up. But one time we kinda got in trouble, because someone hit the screen for real and the arrow got stuck in the middle of the picture. Try watching a movie with something stuck to the screen, without laughing."

"I've been wanting to see it to compare it with the book," Stephen said.

"Joe?" He had been unusually quiet all that morning.

"Where you go, I shall go with you," he said.

They didn't have any bows and arrows, but Mat compensated by turning a straw into a blowgun and firing candy at the screen every time an Orc or a Ring wraith hove into view.

Cecie glanced at some of the others from time to time. She thought she saw Bernie holding Frank's hand for an entirely different reason during Arwen and Aragorn's tender moments.

Joe watched with unusually wrapt attention for him. For someone with an utterly logical mind, who lacked the capacity to believe in the unseen and untouchable and the fantastic, he betrayed something that almost defied his nature. What went on above those green eyes?

"Okay," said Cecie on the way out. "The big question is: which Lord of the Rings character is each of us?"

"My pressshhhusssssss," Mat hissed in a creaky voice, rubbing his hands together. "Mine! Mine! All mine!"

"All right, Gollum," Kip said, grinning. "I'm definitely a hobbit, Merry or Pippin, but probably not Frodo."

"I think you're a lot like Sam," Phila said.

"Which would make you Rosie Cotton.

"With the beard, you're starting to look a lot like Aragorn," Bernie said to Frank.

"I'm Viggio Mortensen now," Frank groaned. "Not a bad comparison. I didn't know I was the uncrowned heir to Gondor."

"And you, Cecie, would be Arwen Undomiel if you would grow out your hair," Joe said to Cecie almost shyly.

"Or she could be Gandalf, since she brought us all together today," Kip suggested.

"Fool of a Took!" Cecie growled, dropping her voice an octave, and sounding not entirely unlike Ian McKellan. But she smiled.

"Well, if I'm Aragorn, that makes Bernie Arwen," Frank said.

"I'm not _that_ pretty," Bernie countered.

"Maybe you're more like Eowyn," Cecie suggested.

"I'm terrible with a sword."

"No, but you're a strong person. Another thought crossed her mind, but she put it aside. "What about you, Stephen?"

"I'm kinda like Boromir: I'm strong but I have a weak spot, and I got knocked out of the running."

"At least you didn't get arrows shot into you by Orcs," Frank said.

"What about me?" Sarah asked.

"You could be a very young Galadriel," Cecie said.

"A very apt analogy: she has a superior knowledge of the fantastic realm," Joe said.

"Gee, uh, thanks." Sarah had been looking askance at Joe, but she looked away.

"You were saying something else?" Cecie asked.

"Oh, I was gonna say Joe might be Legolas, but I changed my mind."

"That makes not an entirely inappropriate analogy," Joe said, smiling, "I take it as a compliment."

"What makes you agree with that?" Cecie asked him.

"You could spell it out better than I. And were I to say it I would again be accused of being vain."

"Oh, because he's beautiful and he's not exactly human." Joe replied to this only with a smile of satisfaction.

"He even looks a little like Orlando Bloom," Bernie murmured.

"What was that?" Frank asked.

"Nothing, I'm just tired."

Saturday presented itself as a quietly eventful day. Phila and Bernie went to a couple more wedding showers, back to back, at different friends' houses. Kip, Frank, Stephen, Mat, Ferde, and Peter trimmed the bushes and cleared the rest of the garden in preparation for having the dance floor and the tent set up on the Bowling Green.

Sarah tried re-reading the Lord of the Rings, but she soon gave up and went back to _The Princess Bride_. "The book's a lot slower than the movie," she admitted to Cecie.

"Yeah, Peter Jackson did such a good job with it I sometimes feel as if I'm uttering blasphemy against Tolkien, or should I say Venerable J.R.R. Tolkien, when I say Jackson improved on him slightly."

"Venerable J.R.R. Tolkien? Are you foolin'?"

"Dead serious. Pope Pius the XXI just declared him a Venerable."

To get back in the mood, Sarah went down to the yew tunnel to read, sitting between the spread roots of the largest tree.

After a while, she heard movement, someone's light step on the moss under the trees.

"'When I left you', he whispered, 'You were already more beautiful than anything I dared dream. In our years apart, my imaginings did their best to improve on your perfection. At nights your face was forever behind my eyes. and now I see that that vision who kept me company in my loneliness was a hag compared to the beauty now before me'." said a gentle man's voice nearby.

She looked up. Joe sat perched as graceful and poised as an elf, in the crotch of the tree opposite where she sat.

She looked down at the page under her finger. Her nail lay against the very passage he had quoted.

"How did you…have you read this book?" she asked.

"I must confess to you that I read its pages the other day when you left it behind in the garden."

"Have you got a photographic memory or something?" she asked.

"Not only do I have a photographic memory, but I also possess a complete recall."

"So read the whole book and you remember the whole thing?"

"Each word lies tucked in my memory."

"Okay, so what did you think about it?"

He tilted his head slightly. "I find your kind's creative ability a rare and remarkable gift, and the creations you have wrought by this gift never fail to reinforce this admiration. This one especially stands out."

"You liked it?"

"I could say that I did. Would, however, that it had a stronger ending."

"Yeah, that's the only thing I don't like about it either. It kinda trails off, but at least Buttercup and Westley get back together."

"Perhaps the most glorious love is that of separated lovers reunited after much time and peril is past."

"I wouldn't know, I'm only thirteen."

"And you have never known love?"

"No, of course not; I mean, besides my parents' love, but that's a different kind."

He nodded gently, a slow gesture, raising his head and lowering it once. "And yet someday you will know what love is, if time and destiny and life deal gently with you."

Cecie came up from the lower garden, with a basket of wildflowers under her arm. "The gang was gonna whack these all off, but I beat 'em to them. Hey, Joe, where'd you go?"

Joe looked at her with an odd, ironical smirk of a smile. "That is not my epigram."

"Then it's a new one."

He leapt gracefully from his perch and approached Cecie. She let him take her basket as he accompanied her back to the house.

Kip arranged a lunch tray for his mother, complete with a bud vase of small flowers from Cecie's bouquet. As he finished, he heard a soft white noise at his side, more felt than heard.

He looked up to find Joe at his elbow, smiling innocently.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?"

"Might I take from your shoulders the burden of carrying that tray to your dear mother's chamber?"

"I think I can handle it, but thanks anyway."

"Do you not need to conserve your energy so that you might finish freshening the garden?"

"This won't tire me, I'm strong."

"If you so insist, but may I accompany you to her bedside?"

"You win. Do you always get your way with everyone?"

"Not everyone, no, not everyone has yielded to my sweet persuasions."

Cecie watched this from the dining room, where she and Bernie were sweeping the floor. She thought she heard Bernie breathe a sigh of relief, when Joe disappeared from sight into the back bedroom.

"Are you all right, Bern?"

"Oh? Uh, I'm fine." She trembled.

Cecie looked straight at her. The flush on Bernie's face had nothing to do with her labors or the warmth of the day. "You're not being honest with me."

"Can you come up to my room after we're finished here?"

"Of course."

After they emptied the dustpans into the trash can in the kitchen and put the brooms away in the closet, Bernie led Cecie upstairs and down the hallway to her room at the far end. She shut the door behind them and latched it.

"So what's the big secret?" Cecie asked, perched on the brass footboard of the bed. "Have you been sneaking out to meet Frank in the garden and make out in the yew tunnel?"

"Cecie! No, it's not that."

"Okay, You've found out what a good kisser Joe is and you've been tying yourself in knots trying not to test drive the rest of him."

Bernie drew in a long breath. "You're very close."

"Uh oh. Go ahead: spill it. I can empathize because I've _been_ there."

"I know I can't tell you who to keep company with, but I really wish you hadn't brought him along. I mean, I look at him and sometimes I'm back in that courtyard garden in that nightclub in Rouge City, sitting just inches from him on a loveseat; he's just kissed me on both cheeks and he's just about to kiss me on the mouth. So I start wanting Frank more than I already do."

"Well, the wedding's a week from today. Think you can make it through seven more nights of maidenhood?"

"I don't know. Are you sure Joe isn't possessed or something?"

"I won't deny the spirit of fornication makes use of him, but he's utterly unaware of it. Of himself, he has fewer demons than us Orgas. He knows little better than his function, but he knows enough to stay within the lines, even when he tests 'em. He knows what 'no' means."

"Is there any way you can send him back to Rouge City?"

"For starters, I'm not going to send him back. If I told him he had to go back, that would really send him into uppity mode, auburn hair or default black.

"Well, just tell him to stay away from me, not to even look at me, at least until after the wedding, if not for good."

"I'll see what I can do. But think of it this way: these are just feelings you're having. Don't take them seriously and they'll go away by themselves. If you keep swatting at them, they'll just thrive and fatten on the attention. Don't take them seriously and they'll starve. This isn't word-spinning; this is experience talking."

"So how do you handle him?"

"I remind myself that he's just my friend, even if he goes into admiration mode. It's not like I haven't been tempted. I have it in me to go all the way, to give him the signal and get it on with him. If I didn't, I'd have something wrong with me. It ain't easy having these feelings, but I get by. Sometimes my will breaks down, but I just pull myself together and keep going the way I'd been going before I hit the bump."

"But you said your will breaks down."

"So? I just admit to the All Mighty through His minister that I blew it, then I just go on as before. You know what they say, 'Virtue isn't virtue until it's been tested'."

"I guess it's always getting tested every time you're with Joe, uh, you know what I mean."

"You know I never did keep normal company. Least of all was the LOTR bows and arrows club in college."

"Weren't there worse people?"

"Depended on how you looked at them. There was the little guy, the actor who moonlighted as an escort. Then there was the computer hacker; they're not as crooked as the media makes them out to be: they're good friends to have when your laptop or your scriber goes on the fritz."

"But Joe has to be the worst. I mean: he isn't even human."

"Well, at least he's with me for the next two weeks, and I'll do my best to keep him out of trouble. Not to say he hasn't been up to his usual gallantries."

"He certainly likes Irene."

"She likes him, so he's responding in kind to her encouragement."

"She shouldn't encourage him.'

"She's not _encouraging_ encouraging him, if you know what I mean."

"I guess I've said all I can say about this. Just don't let Peter know that I ever had anything to do with Joe, or that I still get feelings for him…it…whatever."

"As Sarah would say, by the sun and the moon and the Dog Star, your secret lies safe in my bosom."

"Thanks, Cecie."

"Anything to help."

Bernie opened the door and let Cecie go out first.

As they started up the hallway, a tall dark figure swung out of an alcove near Bernie's door. Joe stood before them, a barely veiled grin on his swarthy face.

"You silicon sneak," Cecie growled.

"Oh, NO!" Bernie cried. She rushed backing to her room. She slammed the door; Cecie heard her lock it.

Joe gazed toward the closed door with a self-satisfied smile.

"You heard everything we said," Cecie snarled.

"I heard all I need to know to answer a query I had processed: Does she still want my attentions? How sweet it is to know she wants me still!"

Afterword:

I hope I can keep writing after I start working again. I don't want to leave you all in the lurch. In the meantime, for those of you who belong to the "A.I." fanfiction mailing list on Yahoo! (If you don't belong, I urge you to sign up), I might post a crude time line for this story to give you a taste of things to come and to keep you all in suspense.

Literary Easter Eggs:

Luck is the penname of Providence—I know I've heard this proverb somewhere, but I couldn't tell you if it was German or whatever. Anyone know?

Sarah's dream—Special thanks for this scene goes to one of S|K's exquisite "A.I." fan art pencil drawings on Laurie E. Smith's site (I cannot say which one, or it would spoil the effect), to Edward Gorey's dementedly delightful Gothic animation sequence for the opening credits of PBS's _Mystery!_ , and to the prose poetry of Ray Bradbury and Tanith Lee.

Uppity toaster—This actually happened to me (for the same reason, no less!) as I was drafting part of this chapter; some of the dialogue lines are based on stuff I was saying to and about the toaster (No, I did not call it Joe).

"Lord Of The Rings"—This got into the story in honor of the release of the DVD (which I got free from Blockbuster Video) of LOTR, and as a tip of the hat to the person on the "A.I." Fanfiction mailing list on Yahoo! who proposed an LOTR/"A.I." crossover: "Joe and Legolas in the same paragraph…::drool::" Also, the bows and arrows prank came from a hysterical but now sadly defunct list of "Things to do when you watch LOTR". Lastly, the arrow in the screen was inspired by one time there was a huge splotch of what looked like fruit punch on the movie screen (And we were watching _Insomnia_ ; not a wholly appropriate blotch to have on the screen during the opening montage.


	4. ...Beautiful Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _THOSE_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Remember the corn-sorting job I mentioned last time? Well, it kinda fell through because of the drought we've been having and because of our wonderful bobbling economy...well, when life sends you lemons, make lemonade and make enough to share with others, hence: Chapter 4! It's a little quiet, like the last two, but one of the most important players arrives in it, and things start to change in Cecie and Joe's relationship.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. Also, I don't own the lyrics to Madonna's "Beautiful Stranger" (I first heard the song on the canned music at the grocery store I worked in last year, and it always put me in mind of some tall, dark, mysterious-looking fellow...little did I know...), or the mildly modified excerpt from Petronius's _Satyricon_.

Chapter IV

...Beautiful Stranger

Sunday morning, Cecie got up earlier even than the Connellys: she had to give Joe a quick explanation of the Catholic Mass. She'd avoided going to daily Mass at St. Edith Stein's Parish all last week only because she hadn't had the time to brief him until now. He accepted it without much fuss.

She didn't sit with the Connellys either, but stayed in a pew up the back, with Joe at her side, just to keep out of the range of everyone's stares. But even this backfired: Winifred Bax sat in the pew directly across the aisle from them, and more than once, Cecie caught the older woman eyeing Joe from over the top of her prayerbook.

She thought she had explicitly told Joe not to follow her up to the altar for Communion, but he accompanied her anyway, though he held back once she reached the altar rail. He stood behind her as she knelt down; the priest, Father Kunstler, glanced up at him slightly puzzled at first, but then realization passed over the older priest's face. He raised the small Host he held in his fingertips and with it, made a gracious Sign of the Cross in Joe's direction. Cecie tried not to smile, knowing the looks of shock and disapproval Peter and Georgette and not a few others would cast in her direction.

After Mass, while the Connellys lingered over their prayers, Cecie made the circuit of the statues along the ambulatory around the main body of the chapel, Joe at her side.

She paused at the statue of St. Jude and lit a candle: getting the Connellys to tolerate Joe had been an impossible case and she needed all the help she could get.

She lingered at the statue of St. Cecilia also. Joe eyed the nameplate on the base of the statue, then leaned over to Cecie.

"You were named for this ...saint?" he asked in a low whisper.

"Yes, she's the patron of music; she's said to have invented the pipe organ."

"And so she gave a glorious-voiced gift to your faith."

She paused before the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes. Joe gazed up at the image with a warm look of tenderness. As Cecie started to move away, he leaned over and laid a lingering kiss on the foot of the image. Cecie smiled at him.

"You know, if you were human, you'd make a good Catholic," Cecie said to him as they stepped outside.

"I am human in form," he countered.

"True, but you lack that one thing that really separates our species: a soul."

He stood in front of her. "How do you know for certain that I do? You have said yourself that with your God, all things are possible. If He could become human, could He not, if He so wished, give this gift of a soul to one of my kind?"

"I don't see it happening, but who knows?"

The Connellys had come out and mingled with the crowd in the courtyard. The three old ladies Cecie had overheard in the market, Mildred, Clara, and Winifred, had gathered close by the privet hedges that framed the dooryard; their friend Samantha Covey had joined them.

"Have you seen the nice-looking young man Cecilia Martin brought with her?" Mildred asked.

"No, I didn't even know she was seeing anybody," said Samantha.

"Well, she is now," Mildred replied.

"God bless her! Have you met him?"

"Not personally, but he's absolutely gorgeous! I'd like to know where she met him."

"Oh, she probably met him through her work; most people do these days," Clara said.

"I wonder what he does for work," Mildred put in.

"Oh, he's probably a writer or an artist or something like that. She always used to hang about with people like that," Winifred said. "But with the kind of figure he has, I'll bet he's a dancer."

Joe bent his head, listening to this conversation with rapt attention. At length, he turned to Cecie with a puckish smile. "The venerable ladies of your community find me an object of curiosity."

"Well, just don't go near them. I don't want them to find out what you are, or I'd never hear the end of it and I might not be able to show my face around town again."

She found Peter introducing Frank and Kip to Diocletian and his wife. Allison Diocletian was a small, thin woman with mousy brown hair and a pretty, quiet face already starting to show care lines about her eyes and mouth even though she was hardly past her mid-thirties.

"I think I've read some of your magazine articles," Diocletian was saying to Frank. "You've got a good eye for details."

"My editors wish I didn't," Frank replied. "Then they wouldn't have to keep cutting my copy down to size."

Peter glanced toward Cecie and Joe as they approached the group. "Oh, here they are now. Shay, Allie, you know Cecie, but she's brought along her-ahem-young, er, gentleman friend Joe."

"We've already met," Diocletian said, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Allison said, offering her hand to Joe.

Joe took it graciously and turned it over, palm down. "The pleasure is, I assure you, all mine, Allison," he said. He leaned over her hand and kissed the back of it.

Diocletian reached out and pulled his wife's hand out of Joe's hand. Allison looked away, her lip trembling slightly. Joe regarded this gesture with blank bewilderment.

Sarah had watched the whole exchange from the rose garden: the brief, polite chatting between Uncle Peter and Mr. Diocletian, then Cecie and Joe coming along and Uncle Peter somewhat hesitantly introducing Joe to the couple. Mr. Diocletian regarded the poor fellow with the same sort of cold pomposity he showed toward everyone else. She'd always seen Mr. Diocletian as a handsome man, but next to Joe he looked middle-aged, sagging, worn out before his time by his own arrogance.

She noticed something a little odd about the way Mrs. Diocletian looked up at Joe as he leaned over her hand, almost the way the princess might look upon the handsome knight her father had forbidden her to consort with. In some ways, Joe was a knight, but the steel was all on the inside.

But why should she be looking at Joe anyway, least of all like...that? She was married to Diocletian; they had two sons. She had a family. She didn't need to look at him with that sort of, well, longing in her eye.

Sarah almost felt relieved when Diocletian pulled his wife's hand out of Joe's, but then she almost cried out in objection. Did he have to do it so brusquely? Noting the blank look of dismay in the Mecha's eyes, she nearly bolted from the garden to comfort him. But if she did, how would he take it? Would that set off something in him that she'd rather not see?

She went deeper into the rose garden to get away from this scene.

She found Frank and Bernie coming up the cross-path. They walked across the grass close to the church wall. Bernie had her hands behind her back, and she kept them there as Frank paused and turned toward her. He leaned one hand against the wall behind her as he stood before her. They spoke in voices too low for Sarah to hear. Frank looked so much nicer now that he'd trimmed back his whiskers into a neat chin beard, what Cecie had called a "Van dyke".

She heard someone coming; she ducked behind a bush.

Peter had sent Cecie to find Bernie and Frank, who had strayed off somewhere into the garden; this gave her a chance to show the gardens to Joe.

As they strayed along the path, Cecie paused before a bush covered with salmon-pink roses with golden centers; she carefully drew one down to her level to smell it. Joe studied one blossom intently, then delicately caressed its petals with a touch as light as butterfly's. She watched this gesture; he must have sensed her eyes on him: he turned back to her.

"Perhaps something is awry in your world when a mere machine possesses a more delicate touch than a man's touch," he observed. He raised his finger away from the petals; the bloom hardly moved under this retreating movement.

"If you mean Diocletian, you probably have more sense of romance in your little finger than he has in his whole person," she said.

"His wife has about her the look of a woman who has not known real love for too many years of nights in succession."

"We used to say in the store that Diocletian wasn't born like the rest of us Orga: we said he was grown in a vat and he came out adult-size. They've got a couple of kids, but I don't think they made them the old-fashioned way. None of us-not even Carton Jacobi, who had the dirtiest mind-could imagine Diocletian, y' know, getting cozy with Allison."

"If I possessed this gift to envision the impossible, even I could not see that man doing for her what I could do for her, much less with the same quality and attention." He had that gleam of anticipated conquest in his eye.

"Now get that out of your processor, or I'll gouge it out myself."

He smiled astutely at her. "You know that you could do me no harm, no more than the next woman could."

"You win," she muttered, shaking her head.

At length, they came upon Frank and Bernie, behind a large bush covered with white blossoms with red hearts. Frank had his hand under Bernie's chin, tilting her face up to his. He lowered his eyelids as he lowered his face to hers; Bernie turned her face away slightly as he tried to kiss her lips, and he ended up kissing her cheek near the corner of her mouth.

"Uh, I don't mean to intrude, but are you two practicing for the wedding?" Cecie asked. Bernie broke from Frank's touch.

"Well, if we were, one of us just had a little lapse, probably just jitters," Frank said. To Bernie he added, "We'll get this cleared up Saturday, right?"

"Yeah, it was just jitters, after all," Bernie said, smiling nervously.

"Peter's looking for you, and we're trying to find Sarah as well," Cecie said. She glanced at Joe out of the corner of her eye; he seemed oddly curious about some of the bushes.

Frank looked around. He stepped in among the bushes and came out, leading Sarah by the hand.

"Now how long were you there?" he asked with a teasing lilt.

"Just a few minutes," Sarah said. "Please don't tell Uncle Peter, or I'll get a three hour lecture from him."

"I wouldn't wish anyone to be subject to that treatment, except maybe my worst enemy," Frank said.

The five of them walked back to where Peter and Georgette waited for them.

"I'd advise you to keep away from that friend of Cecie Martin's," Diocletian said to his wife as they drove to pick up their sons at Allison's mother's house.

"He seemed a little odd, but he seems perfectly harmless," she said.

"That's the whole point: he isn't harmless."

"No?"

"He's one of _those_."

"One of what?"

"Don't be naïve. He's a sex-Mecha."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"Didn't you see how glossy the thing's skin was? And that none-too-intelligent look in its eye? Why the designers call it an artificial intelligence slays me. The artificial part is understood, but what's so intelligent about them?"

"They call them artificial intelligences because they have an awareness something like ours, sort of, even though they're machines."

Diocletian wagged his head impatiently. "Yeah, well, they can't do anything we already couldn't do just as well, if not better, especially _that_."

Allison didn't argue. After thirteen years of marriage to Shay, she knew better than to argue, that shay had to have the last word no matter what, and she didn't want to start a fight, not with the boys coming home; had to show them smiling faces.

The radio played an old song by a singer called Madonna:

"Haven't we met?

You're some kind of beautiful stranger.

You could be good for me;

I've had the taste for danger.

"If I'm smart, then I'll run away,

But I'm not, so I guess I'll stay.

Heaven forbid,

I fell in love with a beautiful stranger.

"I looked into you eyes

And my world came tumbling down.

You're the devil in disguise,

That's why I'm singing this song.

"To know you is to love you

You're everywhere I go

And everybody knows..."

Sarah seemed unusually quiet even for her for the rest of the day, and she kept her eyes averted from Joe every time she got within eyeshot of him.

"Is there anything you need to talk about?" Cecie asked her at bedtime.

"Well, there was something personal I kinda wanted to ask you."

"Ask away: the worst I can do is refuse to answer it."

"When did...I mean, how old were you when you...first liked...I mean, had a crush on a guy?"

Cecie hid a smile in her hand. "You'll laugh if I tell you."

"No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't be cruel."

"I wouldn't mind it even if you did. I was five years old."

"Five? That's young."

"Tell me about it. I was in kindergarten, and I got it bad for this one boy, Jerry Stang, even though he acted like I didn't exist. All the other girls thought I was weird."

"I would think so. I baby-sat out neighbor's little girl; she's starting first grade next month, and she hates boys like anything. She hates anything male so bad, she thinks if you insist loud enough and long enough that an animal is a girl, that makes it so."

"And then ten years from now she'll be all over the boys.

"I wish! But I don't see it happening.

"So when was your first real crush?"

"It's really hard to say: I always thought the boys were more interesting than the girls. All through high school, I had more guy friends than girl friends. Phila and Bernie were the only real girl friends I ever had and they were really more like sisters."

"So who did you like next after Jerry?"

"Let's see...I had the usual crushes on movie actors and singers, but I didn't have a real crush on anyone again until I was thirteen and this handsome fellow who went to Mass at St. Edith's, Richard...Nackert? Nackert...anyway, he got married, and I was mortified afterward. As soon as I saw the first wedding banns published, I felt like I'd caught some dread disease.

"So...who is it?"

"Who's what?'

"Who's the object of your emotions? Is it Kip?"

"Of course not, he's nice but he's nothing to look at."

"Is it Frank?"

"He's too wacky."

"Is it Stephen?"

"No, he's too nice, I want someone sorta wicked, but not."

"Don't tell me it's Diocletian."

"NO! He's so nasty even his mother would be afraid of him."

Cecie tried not to lower her eyelids fiendishly. "I bet I know."

Sarah looked at her face. "Of course not! If Uncle Peter found out, he'd thrash me"

Cecie shrugged. "Suit yourself, but it doesn't take a mind reader to figure it out."

"Well, if that's what they'd come up with, they'd better clean their mind-reading equipment."

Sarah tried to think of other things as she fell asleep, but all she could think of as she dozed off was Frank trying to kiss Bernie on the lips, and of Joe gazing at her through the bushes...

She found herself walking through another garden in the night, though it looked not so much like a garden as it resembled a long corridor roofed in glass with crystal walls, like some sort of greenhouse. Clumps of brightly-colored flowers blazed out from the darkness around her, then she realized the brilliance came not form the hues of the blossoms, but from the blooms themselves. They glowed in the night like incandescent clouds or like colored lights seen through a fog.

In the shadows between two clumps of flowers-lights of rose and azure blue, she made out an indistinct figure, dressed in iridescent black garments that shimmered in the darkness, catching and reflecting the colored lights around him. She tried to approach him; she reached out to touch the hem of his garment.

He turned to her slowly; then he escaped, capering into the darkness and the mist of light like a gazelle, laughing gentle mockery back to her.

She ran in his direction, following the light patter of his footsteps; she saw his form only when the lights gleamed off his sheening garments.

He paused and stood poised as if he would let her draw nigh. She came nearly to within arm's reach of him, when he turned and leapt away again. One hand swept back, as if beckoning her to pursue.

As she followed him, the crystal corridor made several sudden turns and she nearly lost sight of him among the luminous blossoms. But he reappeared, posed against the glow, a slender shadow backlit.

But when she drew close, he leapt lightly aside. She gave chase, more determined than ever that this time she would come close enough to take hold of him.

He seemed to sense her determination: he zig-zagged before her, following a parabolic course, often hiding behind or amongst the blossoms, only to reappear farther away.

At length, they came to a high wall of bushes bearing flame-colored blossoms picked out with purple. He had to stop here: he could go no farther.

But instead he flung himself in a long leap at the bush. He broke through, scattering petals and sending them cascading to the ground like shards of stained glass. An avenue opened up for her to follow.

She stepped through the opening in the bush into a kind of conservatory at the end of the corridor. A group of silver statues gleaming in the light from the bush stood here in various graceful poses, like classical statues worked in metal. She could not see her stranger.

But no, he reclined in the lap of one statue, his head supported by its outstretched hand, as if it embraced him. He arose slowly and turned to her...

She woke up when Cecie stumbled on a corner of the air mattress.

"Hey, I was having a nice dream," Sarah muttered, pulling the covers over her head.

"Sorry," Cecie said.

That day, Kip, Frank, Mat, and Ferde set to work mowing the long front lawn, while Alice, Georgette, Ellen, Phila and Bernie went to the caterer's in Amherst to try some samples and place their order. Stephen and Sarah had gone for a walk in the woods Cecie ducked out of the dining room with Joe immediately after breakfast, to avoid getting roped into going with them. Now they sat in a nook in the attic, she on an old couch, her scriber in her lap, he on a pile of cushions at her feet.

"You're lucky you don't have to eat," she informed him.

"Some people have told me this causes me to miss out on one of life's greatest pleasures. Why then do you say this?"

"I'm saying it because Amherst has the worst caterer anywhere: you won't be missing out on a pleasure, you'll be avoiding a major stomach cramp."

"Why then do they go to this trouble?"

"Georgette knows the woman who runs the place, so she can get a good deal, plus, she didn't want Chartrice to feel left out or passed over."

"But if this Chartrice's culinary fruits fail to delight the palate, why then does she maintain business?"

Cecie almost said 'Your guess is as good as mine', but she realized that didn't quite fit. "That's a good question," she said, instead.

She wrote for a long time, but the cozy warmth of the attic and the sunlight shining through the one window made her drowsy. She set her scriber aside on a box and settled back against the arm of the sofa.

She'd made the mistake of closing her eyes. She awoke hearing rain on the roof, but she sensed something else: someone had removed her glasses, her head felt higher than it had been and the angle had changed. Plus she could hear the soft, soundless drone of some sort of inner mechanisms very close to her ear. She looked up.

Joe looked down at her, upside down. She realized she lay with her head in his lap; he must have crept up beside her as she slept and gently rearranged her. She sat up so quickly, she nearly bumped her head on his chin. She turned to him, eyes flashing.

"Don't let me catch you doing that again," she snapped, too harshly.

"You stirred in your sleep many times. Your head moved most restlessly, so I meant only to offer you a place to rest it."

"I know you meant well," she patted his shoulder reassuringly. "But it's just... that was a little too much for me."

She looked out at the rain falling, running down the glass in rivulets. "I guess the fellas had to abandon the lawn mowing." She picked up her scriber and headed downstairs, Joe at her side. He offered to carry her scriber for her; she relented at length.

Frank stood in the dining room toweling his damp hair when they came down.

"Ugh!" Kip cried, coming from the bathroom, clearly already changed into dry clothes. "The sky just opened up over our heads."

"No more cuttin' grass today," Mat said, sitting on the floor. He eyed Cecie and Joe. "Where were you two pixies all this time?"

"High and dry in the attic," Cecie said. "Did Sarah and Stephen get back?"

"They should be back soon if they made a run for it," Ferde said, coming downstairs behind them.

Even as he spoke, the back door banged open and closed.

"Ooh! Brrr! Ow! That is _cold!_ " Sarah yelped, coming into the dining room. She'd already kicked off her shoes, now she peeled off her socks. She started tugging at her slip, but then she looked up in Joe's direction.

His eyes had turned toward her, but he quickly averted them.

Sarah's face went red; she dashed for the bathroom and banged the door shut behind her.

"Uh, Sarah, it's me Cecie; you want me to got get some dry clothes for you?"

"I completely forgot!" Sarah wailed.

"Calm down and keep your shirt on, uh, not literally."

Cecie ran upstairs and grabbed the first of Sarah's clothes she could find: a peasant blouse and blue jeans, and ran downstairs. She tapped on the door.

"It's Cecie with your stuff."

The door popped open a crack; Sarah stuck her hand out, grabbed the clothes and tugged them inside. She snapped the door shut.

"You better not harbor any intentions toward my daughter," Ferde was saying to Joe.

"I am not permitted to approach anyone who has not attained the age of consent," Joe replied matter of factly.

"It's a good thing. But if she was older now, I'd rather see her with something like you than a lot of the goons out there."

"Don't encourage him, Ferde," Cecie said.

"Yeah, and don't let Peter hear about this, either," Kip added.

Sarah emerged from the bathroom, dressed, but she kept her eyes averted from everyone as she stalked upstairs.

Stephen came in at the back door, taking down his umbrella.

"I guess you drowned rats need some tea," Cecie said, heading into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil. She got down seven mugs from the cupboard and took down the box of tea bags.

Once the water had boiled, she filled the mugs and added a shot of cooking sherry to six of the mugs, making sure not to put any in the mismatched mug.

The rain kept pouring down. Frank updated his diary in the living room, watching for the girls to get back. Cecie scanned the bookshelves, as familiar as they were to her.

"I mean not to sound querulous, but do the Connellys possess any books that do not deal with the spiritual?" Joe asked from the armchair where he sat, with his long legs slung gracefully over one arm.

"Believe it or not, they do, they just don't keep them in the living room," Cecie said.

"I don't mean to sound critical of my soon-to-be in-laws, but that's one thing I find a little annoying. I mean, what's wrong with having a few books around that aren't exactly cosmology?" Frank said.

"At least you won't have to live here, the way I did for five years," Cecie said.

Frank did a double take; even Joe looked at her quizzically. "You mean you _lived_ here with these people?" Frank asked.

"My mother was in and out of the hospital with cancer the last five years of her life, so I stayed here all that time."

"How did you stand it?" Frank asked. "I could imagine going to live in a place like Rouge City after living here, just to see if my lower nature was still intact."

"Perhaps this led you to remove yourself to Rouge City, and why you sought out the company afforded by something like me," Joe insinuated.

"Neither of you ever had to see them at their worst. When Phila was in grade school, they wouldn't let her play with any kid they knew had two rabbits in the same cage together."

"Now that's really extreme! I mean, that was how my folks taught me about reproduction," Frank said.

"They would begrudge their daughter the knowledge even of nature?" Joe asked, condescendingly.

"They even got after me because I started early," Cecie said, selecting a volume of Dante, the only thing she could find that was not explicitly theological.

"You can tell us about it; we both know about women," Frank said.

"I started wearing bras when I was twelve, and they begrudged me for that. They were sure I was going to develop a voluptuous figure, on account of the fact that I never dressed as conservatively as Phila and Bernie did."

"You don't dress _that_ daringly," Frank said. "And anyone who says your figure is voluptuous is either generous or perverse." He darted a glance at Joe. "Or he's a lover-Mecha."

"I will not deny Cecie possesses many attractive facets to her appearance," Joe said innocently.

"So how'd they, y' know, teach Phila and Bernie the birds 'n the bees?" Frank asked.

"How do ornithology and apiculture come into the discussion?" Joe asked. Cecie detected an odd little lilt to his voice, as if he were making a joke.

"They might as well have taught them that," Cecie said. "I think they waited till the last minute, y' know, told them about their cycle like a week before they had their first period, and then after that they'd get suspicious about any guy that happened to be looking in Phila or Bernie's direction."

"What about Stephen?" Frank asked.

"I don't know. He went to a boys' school in Albany, so they had less control over what he got exposed to there."

Joe rose from his chair and graciously let Cecie sit down. "And doubtlessly," he said, seating himself on the floor beside her, "They have not taught him how to please a woman and delight her heart."

"I'm afraid not. I actually tried to start a relationship with him after I got out of college. I had to let him go: he kept treating me like a sister, and then he went into the seminary." She slung her legs over the opposite arm of the chair.

Frank looked askance at Joe. "Maybe in that case, it's just as well Joe ain't staying up in the men's dormitory," he said.

"Let's not go there," Cecie said.

"In which case," Joe said, clearly ignoring Frank's remark, "What then have they told their daughters about, as you, Cecie, call it, the other half of the equation?"

"Not much, either. Peter gave me this big lecture about pornography when I was seventeen, because I'd hung up a print of Leonardo da Vinci's _Viritruvian Man_ in my room."

"That's the sketch of the guy in the circle with his arms and legs spread in an X, right?" Frank asked.

"Yeah."

"Man, that's really nuts, going after classical art. What about the naked baby Jesus paintings, or the ones with Mary nursing the Christ Child?"

"They don't think much of them, I'm afraid."

Frank looked out the front window. "Uh oh, better cut the conversation. Here come the girls. I hope they didn't choose creamed spinach for the vegetable. I hate creamed spinach."

"I like spinach, but not the creamed variety," Cecie said.

"I just hate the stuff, makes my whole inside lock up. Yicchh!"

"Anything you call edible would cause my insides to lock up as well. Perhaps to some degree, our similarities do not cease beyond appearances and experience," Joe remarked.

The back door opened. At length, Phila and Bernie came into the living room. Phila had her arms about Bernie, who looked more than a little green. Frank got up from the couch and helped Bernie lie down on it.

"You okay, Bern?" he asked.

"Something didn't agree with me," Bernie groaned.

"It must have been the curried shrimp," Phila said.

"Was it creamed spinach," Frank said, straight faced.

"No, it was the jambalaya rice," Bernie said, insistent.

"Even those who can eat find their own comestibles impossible to digest," Joe remarked.

"Oh, shut _up_ , Joe!" Bernie moaned, covering her ears.

The rain stopped that evening. A strong, cold wind blew all night long, so that by morning, when the sun came up, the grass had dried.

"Now we can finish tackling that lawn," Kip said.

Frank pushed the old-fashioned push mower while Kip, Ferde, and Stephen raked up the clippings. Mat doggedly pushed the wheelbarrow behind them; from time to time, they scooped the windrows of cut grass into the barrow.

"Why doesn't Peter at least keep some sheep to keep the grass short in this hay field?" Mat groused.

"Trouble with sheep is they chew the grass right down to the roots and kill it," Stephen said.

"How'd you know that?" Ferde asked.

"I took care of sheep when I was in the seminary."

"Teaching you to take care of one kind of flock to prepare you for another, eh?" Ferde observed.

"It turned out I wasn't suited for either."

"Well, if sheep are out, why doesn't Peter get a gardener Mecha?" Mat suggested.

"Peter wouldn't hear of it," Stephen said. "He doesn't take much stock in Mecha."

"So it isn't just Joe, it's the whole kit 'n caboodle?"

"He just wants to make sure we stay busy," Stephen said.

Mat mopped the back of his neck. "He's sure succeeded in _that_."

They finished mowing the lawn just after noon, which left them much of the day free.

After lunch, Frank found the kickball in the walled garden and brought it down to the Bowling Green, where he kicked it around for a while, solo, with the base of a rock for a goal post.

Mat came along a little while later. "Hey, want some company?"

"Sure," Frank said, kicking the ball to him.

Kip came up from the water garden. "Don't let Georgette know, but I just submerged a plastic case of birch beer in the lily pond to cool," he said.

"Birch beer? Why not the real thing?" Mat asked.

"Gotta keep clear heads for tonight: Boys' Night Out," Kip said.

"Yeah, the closest thing you'll have to a bachelor party," Ferde said, joining them.

"Ooh! Any chance at some, er, exotic entertainment?" Mat asked.

"Not if Peter can help it," Ferde said.

"We really don't need it anyway," Frank said, bouncing the ball off his knees.

"I sure don't," Kip said, grinning and taking Frank's side. "I ain't desertin' the guy who pushed my car."

"Ingrate!" Mat sneered, making a mock disgusted face. "I didn't know we were doing teams."

"Guess we are now," Ferde said, taking Mat's side.

They scrimmaged for a while, mostly just kicking the ball back and forth to each other, but Frank kept up a crazy mock commentary the whole time.

"Sweitz passes the ball to Langier; Langier makes a wild shot. Connelly tries to intercept it and it's another goal for our side!"

Cecie and Stephen came down the walk and over the bridge. She paused at the edge of the field and watched in silence.

"Hey, Frank! Or is it Howard Cosell?" she called. "If you're gonna commentate, you better come up with some names of those teams."

"How about you come down and join us? Maybe that'll help me come up with something," Frank said, deflecting the ball with his elbow.

"Why not?" Cecie said, jumping into the fray on Frank and Kip's side. "You need a goalie anyway."

"Family loyalty," Stephen said, getting behind Ferde.

"And Mat Langier has the ball, he's kicking it down toward the...but Martin deflects it! She's kicked it in a free shot straight down to the other team's goal! And it's another point for the...Rouge City Rascals!"

"If you're the Rouge City Rascals, who 're we?" Mat hollered back, kicking the ball for the other goal, the space between Frank's wadded up flannel shirt on the grass and a cardboard box.

"Kip Langier intercepts the ball, and that's gonna hurt the...Westhillston Wackies."

"Hey! Watch it!" Ferde yelled. The ball whizzed past his head.

"That sounds like a better name to me," Cecie called.

"What does?"

"The Westhillston Watchits."

"Yeah, 'cause they better watch it, or else we'll whack them," Kip said, booting the ball with the side of his foot.

"And whoever wins has to pay for the losing team's drinks," Cecie said.

"Huh?" Frank asked. The ball sailed past him toward the arbitrary goal.

"Guess the Rascals are closer to having their drinks paid for!" Ferde teased.

Cecie kicked the ball in another straight shot.

"Hey, now we're gonna have to pay!" Frank yelled.

Mat booted the ball across the green. Kip ran after it, but tripped and flat on his face. The ball rolled past Cecie somehow. She spiked it across the field. Ferde and Stephen slammed into each other trying to block the ball, which rolled out of bounds.

Mat swatted the ball down toward the goal. Cecie tried to deflect it, but it went between her ankles.

"Hey, penalty, Martin! You're trying to make us lose!" Frank yelled.

"That's the point," she said.

"Why?

"Then we don't get stuck with their bill: I don't drink," Cecie said.

"Wow," Frank said in amazement, but he didn't stay this way for long. Kip passed the ball to him; Frank swiped it toward the Watchits' goal, but not hard enough to score.

"Hey! This isn't ethical!" Stephen cried.

"Who thought up that dumb rule anyway?" Ferde demanded.

"We used to do it in college," Cecie called.

The Watchits retaliated by kicking the ball around among themselves, barely concealed grins on their faces.

"I think your rule just backfired, Cecie," Kip said.

It looked that way until Mat kicked the ball so hard it rolled into the pond.

"Oops," Mat said.

"I guess that's the end of that," Frank said.

"Who won?" Ferde asked.

"I think you scored higher, so you get to pay for our drinks," Kip said. "Birch beer anyone?"

"Sure," Stephen said.

They found Joe sitting perched on the railing of the footbridge.

"Now how long have you been sitting there?" Cecie asked him.

"I have sat here since you divided your numbers into factions, twenty-three minutes and twelve seconds ago," he replied.

Kip fished the pack of birch beer out of the water and booted the ball out onto the lawn.

"So how did the World Chess Championship go?" Kip asked, divvying up the cans among the flesh-and-blood humans.

"I have maintained my winning streak over your dear mother Irene, though she nearly came ahead of me," Joe said.

"You know, you must be the only person who's ever consistently beaten my mother: she used to run circles around my dad's playing skills. How many games have you played her?"

Joe bent his head thoughtfully. "We have challenged each other to thirty-six games in the course of six days."

"Not bad. Where'd you learn that?" Ferde asked.

"I don't know; it's just something I do," Joe replied matter of factly.

"You gotta remember," Cecie said, "One of Joe's ancestors was Deep Blue, the computer AI that beat Gary Kasparov back in the 20th century."

"Yeah, but who knew they'd come up with _this_ ," Ferde said, jabbing his forefinger at Joe. "Which came first, the intelligence or the body?"

"They improved virtual AIs in the early 21st century, then they found ways to load a personality into a metal body robot. Then gradually they modified the design of the external appearance, devised the silicon dermis and modified the skeleton, till we have beings like our Joe."

"But you must admit to yourselves, the who is much, much greater than the sum of his parts," Joe said proudly, by way of conclusion.

"The sum of _his_ parts? We're still in uppity mode, I see," Frank observed.

"His winning streak must have gone to his head-sorry, processors," Stephen said.

"You may use the term head," Joe said, otherwise ignoring the comment. He eyed the soda can quizzically.

"Hey, stop ogling that soda can, fiberhead," Kip teased. "You know you can't have a sip."

Joe looked at Kip, chin lifted slightly. "I cannot, but I may whiff its aroma," he said. "And I beg to differ with your calling me a fiber head."

Cecie lifted the can to a level with her face. Joe leaned his face close to it, lowered his eyelids and flared his nostrils.

He leaned away, a fascinated smile curving his lips. "It has a sweet smell, yet this aroma possesses an unusual tang," he observed. "It scents sweeter than any birch flowers, and it is free of any trace of alcohol. I smelt carbonation bubbles."

"I didn't think birch flowers smelled like anything," Stephen said.

"They have a scent, but it is a dry smell," Joe said.

"How does he know that?" Ferde asked, incredulous.

"He's got sensors that make our Jacobson's organ look like a joke," Cecie said. "That way he can pick up a woman's pheromones a mile away and tell if she's uninterested or lonely, or if she's looking for some comfort."

Mat regarded Joe sidewise. "Wonder what would happen if we pushed him off the railing into the water?"

Joe's face went blank. He got off the railing and sat down on the deck of the bridge, at Cecie's feet. Her foot edged closer to him.

"If you did, or could in light of recent changes, he'd sink like a rock, and I'd dive in after him, but he'd climb out first-rescuing me, no less-and then we'd really have to put up with his indignation."

"Aw, we can put up with that, can't we, fellas?" Mat said.

"Not me," Ferde said.

"Are you sure he's waterproof?" Stephen asked.

"As waterproof as any of you: certain scenarios require it of me," Joe replied, innocently.

"Aw, guess a good dunk wouldn't short him out for a while. Nuts!" Mat muttered.

"It's a bachelor party, so why are you going?" Sarah asked Cecie, who stood in front of her mirror, running a comb through her hair.

"Well, I never did hang out with the girls much, like I said," Cecie said. "I knew on guy who told me I was more like one of the guys, but he didn't mind that in the least. He kinda like me for it."

"I still don't get it."

"We're all different: some of us are more feminine, others are, well, more mannish. I'm one of the latter: I always said the boys did more interesting, exciting stuff than the girls."

"So is that why you're going to a bachelor party?"

"It's really not that, it's just the guys going out for supper and a few drinks, maybe some innocent horsing around."

"I still don't get it: you didn't go with Phila and Bernie to their wedding showers."

"I wasn't invited: Frank and Kip invited me to come along tonight."

"Whatever," Sarah grumbled.

As she came downstairs, Cecie overheard Peter talking in the dining room, clearly giving a few last minute instructions to his son and most likely, his prospective sons-in-law.

"No more than one drink per hour, and don't let any girls catch your eye," Peter said.

"What if Phila and Bernie should drop in and try to catch our eyes?" Frank asked, clearly trying not to sound smart-alecky.

"All right, don't let any _strange_ girls catch your eyes," Peter said. "And above all, if you see any, stay away from any sex-Mechas."

"We're only going to Hodge's; I doubt any of _those_ are likely to come out of the woodwork," Stephen said.

At that exact moment, Joe stepped out of the shadows near the foot of the stairs and stood before her, back-lit by the diffused light from the dining room doorway. He tilted his head toward the voice. For a brief moment, he looked as if he might turn away from her. He looked up at her, clearly trying to read her face.

She answered his unspoken query by stepping down the last steps to his side.

"So you would disregard Peter's sage advice?" Joe asked ironically.

"Of course," she said in a low voice. "Just your being here shows I'm disregarding it."

She took his proffered arm and let him lead her into the dining room.

Peter's eyes went from Cecie's face to Joe's and back to Cecie's. "So you're going in his company?"

"Yes, I am."

Peter looked Joe up and down. "Make sure he remembers he's with you."

Cecie gently increased her hold on Joe's arm.

"Mr. Connelly, I assure you that I shall not abandon Cecie. Such conduct is not worthy of a gentleman, even one such as I. Perhaps you have mistaken some elements of my gallantry for flightiness, but such is not the case."

Peter was speechless at this polite affront, but only for the moment. He reached into the pocket of his pants and held something out to Kip. "Just remember to be back by 23.00."

"We'll be home before then," Kip promised, taking the keys.

"God bless you, and take care of the car," Georgette added.

Frank kept a straight face until they got outside.

"Whoa, are those REALLY the keys to the Buick?" he asked, staring at Kip's pocket.

"These are them," Kip said.

"Man, he must really trust you even if you come from Rouge City," Cecie said.

"We kinda need it if we're all gonna cram into one car," Stephen said. "Unless some of us don't mind sitting in each other's laps."

Cecie darted a glance at Joe, whose smile betrayed he approved of the idea.

Hodge's was a small pub-style restaurant near the center of town; if Norman Rockwell ever painted a bar, he would have used Hodge's for the model: clean, moderately well-lit, posters on the walls of old farm equipment, sporting events and old movies, a few high stools with well-worn leather seats along the bar, several booths in the back.

The seven of them got a booth at the back. There wasn't quite room for Joe, so Leelee the waitress got an extra chair for hi, which he deftly turned back to front.

"Whoa, Cecie! I guess the rumor going around is true!" Leelee said, looking Joe up and down a second time.

"What's the rumor?" Cecie asked.

"Folks have been saying you brought one of _those_ along. I almost thought he was a regular meathead human for a minute. He's a beauty."

"Don't let Joe hear you say that," Frank warned. "Or the compliments will go right to his processors and we'll have to put up with his uppitiness."

"Okay, then I'll just act like Mr. Too-Big-for-his-Artificially-Intelligent-Britches isn't here," Leelee said, trying to keep a straight face.

Joe took this with a look of elegant impishness. "The very fact that you deny my presence serves as proof that I indeed exist."

"You don't stop, do you," Cecie groaned.

A few of the more curious patrons in the pub peered over in their direction. Several women surreptitiously ogled Joe; he returned their gazes genteelly.

"So I guess tomorrow is the real day of reckoning for you two boys," Ferde said some minutes later, gesturing at Kip and Frank with his fork.

"If you mean the Wasserman test, yeah," Kip said, trying not to shudder.

Frank kept his attention focused on his salad. "If either of us is likely to have trouble, it's me," he said at length.

"Why? I thought you said you've been clean for three years and you've been vaccinated," Ferde said.

"You never can tell when something else might have come along that's just lying dormant," Frank said.

"While we're kinda on the subject, and so's Kip and Frank won't be grinding their teeth instead of their eats, can I ask you a personal question, Joe?" Mat ventured.

"You may ask it. If it intrudes upon matters beyond my ability to answer or which were taken into confidence, I can only refuse to answer," Joe replied.

Mat edged closer to Joe. "Well, uh, with, y' know, the problems with, uh, nasty illnesses, how do you keep from turning into a carrier even if you can't, like, actually catch them?"

Joe processed this a long time. "I shall try to answer this query in as delicate terms as possible. We lover-Mechas contain a disinfecting system which destroys any microbes that may come into contact with our dermis and so prevent transmission to another Orga."

"'Sall I wanted to know," Mat said.

"Wonders never cease: the folks that built your types had a lot of foresight," Ferde said.

"At least he kept the explanation clean," Stephen said.

"If you wish for me to elaborate, I can do so," Joe added innocently.

"That won't be necessary," Cecie quickly put in.

"Fancy hearing that from you when you're the one who calls him your friend," Ferde said. "You actually HAVE principles, not that I'd hold it against you. To hear Pete say it, you'd think y' didn't."

"He thinks I don't because I moved to You-Know-Where."

"He was only concerned that you might be led astray," Stephen defended. "I mean, think of how may people go there for...you know."

"True, but I didn't go there for 'you know'. I went there because I'd found the mother lode of moral dilemmas."

Mat and Ferde started guffawing; Mat laughed so hard, a mouthful of beer blew out through his nostrils. Stephen looked mildly horrified; Frank cocked an intrigued eye at her, clearly waiting for elaboration. Joe's face took on a mysteriously proud look.

"Morality isn't the same as virtue. Virtue is the habitual practice of morally good acts, while vice is, of course, the habitual practice of morally bad acts. Morality is what happens when virtue and vice, or different levels of vice or human weakness bump heads. I see a lot of that happen in Rouge City."

"I'd imagine you'd see a lot of vice triumphant," Stephen said.

"It might look like that on the surface, but sometimes you have to lose yourself in order to find yourself," Cecie said.

"That stands to reason if you give it a little thought," Kip put in. "I mean, where I live on the Lower Deck, I see a lot of people coming and going. Sometimes I see the same ones before and after they've been topside. Contrary to popular notion, a lot of people come away from Rouge City very shaken. Some of them are more wounded than before, but that might not be such a bad thing in many ways."

"You often have to lance the scab to purge the wound, so the pus and the infected gack can evacuate and help the wound heal, even if you do it the wrong way," Cecie said.

"But what about the people who are irretrievably lost?" Stephen said.

"No one's irretrievably lost this side of life," Cecie countered. "Like I just said, sometimes you have to lose your way in order to find it again."

"But the characters in your stories are such...sinners! If you didn't have some resolution to the plot, it would look as if you were glorifying their crimes," Stephen returned, trying not to splutter.

Frank eyed Stephen oddly. "Is that you Stephen talking or is this just Stephen repeating stuff your father's said?"

Stephen cracked a sheepish grin, his pale face turning sunset-hued. "Well, one of the counselors at the seminary told me I needed to readjust my conscience, so I guess that's one way of describing what ails me."

"Francois Mauriac and Walker Percy used similar techniques of shedding light on moral dilemmas. You can't bring light into the shadowy places of the human psyche unless you dare to penetrate those same little dark corners. And Walker Percy wasn't ashamed to use, where no other word would do, the kind of four-letter words that often roar out of those little black holes: he wasn't ashamed to tell it like it is, but you came away enlightened, chastened even. I think if he were alive today, he would find a place like Rouge city as much of a fountain of inspiration as he did with his native New Orleans, pre-deluge."

"But your style gets so immodest that way," Stephen said.

"There's a difference between immodesty and frankness," Cecie said. "Immodesty intends to put out a 'come-hither', but frankness tells it like it is. In other words..." She got up and struck a mock oratorical pose:

"'Then why in heaven's name

Must every nagging prude

Of'-er-Peter Connelly's 'ilk cry shame

Denounce my work as lewd,

Damning with a look

My guileless, simple art

This simple modern book?

To prudes I now assert

My purity of speech

Such candor in my pen

As will not stoop to teach.

I write of living men,

The things they say and do

Of every human act

Admitted to be true.

Then where's the shame in that

If lovers should enjoy

The pleasures of the night

Whereby each girl and boy

Experience delight?'"

The people in the booths nearby had been listening. As she concluded and started to sit down again they started whistling and applauding. She got up and bowed with ironic dignity, pretending to stumble off her chair as she sat down again.

"Mmm, nothing like a few lines of Petronius," Frank growled with fake lascivious delight.

"The _Satyricon_ was as raunchy as I ever got in my reading," Cecie admitted. "Even the classics can be downright unabashed in presenting human nature at it's reechiest: Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , anything by Aristophanes, Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_ , Dante's _Divine Comedy_ , Swift's _Gulliver's Travels_ , Henry Fielding's _Tom Jones_ ; Shakespeare's plays are full of all sorts of clever little double entendres."

"Sounds like you're in good company," Ferde declared.

Joe had been listening to all this in attentive silence, but now his attention had strayed to a spot off to his left. Cecie followed his gaze.

Allison Diocletian sat at a table with a few of her girlfriends, chattering among themselves.

"Hey, what's Mrs. Seamus Diocletian doing here by her lone self?" asked Frank. "I mean, if HE knew she was in a place like this..."

"No, she waits up for him here while he's at the Knights of Columbus for a meeting," Cecie said. "It's almost nine, so he should be in any minute now, unless he got talking with someone afterwards."

One of Allison's friends got up and went to the jukebox in the far corner. She dropped a coin into the slot and pressed a couple selector buttons.

An ancient song by Madonna played.

"If I'm smart, then I'll run away

But I'm not, so I guess I'll stay.

Haven't you heard?

I fell in love with a beautiful stranger

"I looked into your face.

My heart was dancing all over the place.

I'd like to change my point of view,

If I could just forget about you.

"To love you is to be part of you

I've paid for you with tears

And swallowed all my pride..."

Cecie passed her hand across Joe's line of sight and moved her hand back to her face. His eyes swung to follow her movement, his head tracking a second after it. He gave her an almost pouting "why did you do that?" look.

Not a moment too soon: Allison had turned to look in Joe's direction. At the same moment, Diocletian walked into the pub, clad in a black suit, carrying his topcoat over his arm.

Joe regarded Cecie with something like innocent confusion. "She gazed at me; I felt her gaze on me. I sought only to return the favor," he said, utterly without guile.

Diocletian sat down with his back to them, blocking Allison from their view. Joe tried to peer around him to glimpse Allison, but Cecie touched Joe's arm.

"Hey, Joe, just remember I'm the lady you walked in with."

He gave her a reassuring wink. "How could I forget?"

To be continued...

Literary Easter Eggs:

St. Edith Stein Parish-No such church, but I amalgamated three different churches I frequent: St. Francis of Assisi Parish (the general atmosphere; it looks like a mildly modernized version of the Norman Rockwell little white church on the hill), St. Joseph the Worker's Shrine (the statues along the ambulatory) and Holy Trinity in Boston (the rose garden).

The Petronius quote-I picked up a copy of the _Satyricon_ at my town's library's book swap while I was drafting one of the earlier chapters of this, and the book opened of itself to this little verse, which I pounced upon. Also, there is another cross-reference at play here: I couldn't help thinking of the part in Meredith Wilson's musical _The Music Man_ where the town gossips are whining about the "dirty books" in the River City public library; they even have a crazy little chant of a song about their plight ("Picka-Little-Talka-Little").

"just remember I'm the lady you walked in with"-Lifted this line from the song "Luck, Be a Lady Tonight". I think I was playing back a few Frank Sinatra songs in my head at the time, and this was one of them. Lyric rewrite is not mine; I think Lena Horne sang it this way (I like old music!).


	5. Philosophy, Pin Pricks, and Ponds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's note:

Ahh, the advantages of being unemployed…you may not have much money, but you got time to writewritewrite stuff. My argument for writing some of these "A.I." fictions is that someday I can turn them into straight robot stories and publish them for real…After several quiet chapters we now have a very busy chapter: confrontations between weak humans and self-righteous ones, philosophizing between semi-logical and purely logical minds, romantic interludes, wedding preparations…and more comedy.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

Chapter V

Pin Pricks, Philosophy, and Ponds

Immediately after breakfast, Ferde drove Kip and Frank to Amherst for their blood work.

"Why do they have to make Kip take the test? It's not like he's…done anything," Phila asked as she dried the breakfast dishes; they had a few more than usual since Peter had stayed home from work.

"Are you sure he hasn't? I mean, after all, he grew up in _that_ city," Georgette asked.

"He's a virgin; he says he never had much interest in what goes on _there_ , since he's been around it for so long."

"Well, I hope that hasn't killed his interest in, well, at least consummating the sacrament."

"I doubt it has," Phila replied.

Bernie came from the dining room with the last few dishes. When she heard the thread of the conversation, her face grew suddenly concerned.

"Is something wrong, Bernie?" Georgette asked.

Bernie put the plates in the sink. "Oh, nothing, nothing at all." Her lower lip trembled and she curled it in between her teeth.

"Something's wrong," Phila said. "What is it?"

"Just pre-wedding jitters, that's all," Bernie said.

Georgette looked into her niece's face. "Your eyes look wary. Is this about Frank?"

"I'm afraid he won't pass the test."

"Then Peter wasn't kidding when he told me Frank told you he's not longer a virgin."

Bernie shook her head. "He's been chaste for three years now."

"That's really not very long," Georgette said. "Oh dear, this changes everything."

At this point, Joe came in from the back bedroom, carrying the tray with Irene's dishes.

"How's Irene?" Georgette asked, averting her eyes as he set the tray on the counter.

"The venerable lady herself said she felt frisky today: she had her meal sitting by the window," he reported.

"How's her shoulder?"

"It gives her no pain today."

"Must be that herbal liniment Alice gave her," Phila said.

"Or perhaps it may stem from the massage I gave her this morning," Joe put in.

"Excuse me," Bernie said, stepping out of the room quickly. Joe gazed after her.

"Now what was that for?" Georgette asked.

A peculiar smirk of a smile crossed Joe's calm face. "Perhaps I should find this out from her."

Sarah kept to her room that day, but Peter had recruited Cecie to clean out the garage, not that it needed much cleaning, since peter kept it so orderly, unlike most garages. This left so little actual work to be done, that it really didn't require two people. As she swept the floor, Cecie allowed herself the covert luxury of a sigh of relief when Georgette came along and took Peter aside. She honed in her hearing on the two voices outside the garage door.

"Peter, is it really true that Frank isn't a virgin?"

"Bernie told me something to that effect. Why?"

"Did you know that he's only been celibate for three years?"

A long pause. "No, I didn't."

"That's not a very long time, and who's to know who he's been with…or what, for that matter."

"We'll have to have a talk with him when he gets back, and as soon as we get the results."

"Maybe he should take another one with another doctor."

"No, not unless the results from the first are questionable."

A moment later, Peter came back into the garage. Cecie emptied the dustpan into the trash barrel.

"Did you know that Frank Sweitz is not longer a virgin?" he asked.

"He admitted to Kip and I that he isn't, but it's really nobody's business except his and Bernie's and God's."

Peter looked over his shoulder and turned back to her. "How many of _those_ did he admit to…consorting with?"

"He didn't give us the particulars; he's a lot more modest than he pretends to be."

"I'll have to have a talk with him."

About forty-five minutes later, Peter decided the garage was clean enough. At the same time, Ferde returned with Frank and Kip. Ferde and Kip got out of the front of the cruiser first, then they helped Frank out of the back; Frank trembled slightly and his face looked pale under its swarthiness. He leaned on Kip's shoulder as they came up to the garage.

"How'd it go?" Peter asked.

"I'm as clear as the driven snow they way I knew I was," Kip said. "But Frank had a little trouble."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Frank. Would you rather that I told Bernie for you?" Peter suggested.

Frank lowered one eyebrow and raised the other. "Huh? No, let me tell you what happened: the nurse stuck me with the needle and took the sample. As soon as she pulled it out, I blacked out and hit the floor— _bam!_ The pain just got to me. So the assistant got the smelling salts and brought me out of it. Then the results came back and I fainted again."

"They found you had something?"

"No, they found absolutely nothing. I thought for a minute they'd run Kip's a second time by accident; but nope, it was mine and it was _clean_."

"You lucked out, fella," Ferde said, punching Frank's arm.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

"You're very blessed to have passed. But that's something I need to talk to you about," Peter said, taking Frank by the shoulder and leading him into the house.

"Uh oh, I don't like the looks of this one bit," Cecie said.

"This better not turn into a single wedding," Kip added.

Ferde rolled up his sleeves and headed up to the house. "Lemme get a word of sense in edgewise."

"If there's anyone who can talk sense into Peter, it's Ferde," Cecie said, following him in.

She found she wasn't the only one cocking an ear to the living room archway. Joe stood with his back to the wall on one side of the archway.

"I told Bernie at Easter that I'm no longer a virgin," Frank admitted. "I'd hoped she'd keep this in confidence."

"I'd asked her if she knew if you were or were not. I felt it was important that we knew what sort of man is marrying our adopted daughter," Peter said.

"It's a blessing that you passed the test," Georgette put in, trying to sound reassuring.

"But is it a blessing to break someone's trust?" Frank asked.

"I didn't mean to break it; I gotta obey my father," Bernie said.

"Bern, you're twenty-three. You have to start thinking for yourself. You're not a child," Frank said.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"No offense, but it's a little late for that."

"We have the right and the need to be informed about what sort of man our son-in-law is," Peter said.

"But there's a reasonable limit to how far you can investigate. I mean, I understood and accepted your wanting the background check."

"We just wanted to know if you maintained your purity and if you can be faithful to Bernie."

"I suppose now you'll want the names and numbers of every girl I ever met."

"That might not be a bad idea."

"I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Connelly, but I can't remember them all."

"Why? Were there that many?"

"No, it's just not the sort of information I really wanted to remember. Do you really take me for the swaggering stud with the black notebook jammed with the names and numbers of every girl he's messed with?"

"We don't. We just want to know where you've been."

"Good grief! Even the priest in confession didn't ask me who I'd been with."

"It might not be a bad idea if he did," Peter said.

"I think it's a Canon law that they can't," Frank said.

"That wouldn't jive with common sense! That kind of requirement would scare people away from the sacrament of reconciliation."

"And for that matter, have all the women you've consorted with been flesh and blood?"

"That, like everything else I've done, is between me and God."

"Didn't you cover a story in Rouge City?"

"I did, but anything else I may have done there doesn't concern you."

"Then you've been… _there_."

"Cecie lives _there_ , but she's never done anything; Kip grew up _there_ and he's still as virgin as the driven snow."

"That's them; we're talking about you."

"I know what you're talking about: you're pulling me apart because I've made a few youthful mistakes."

Just as Cecie realized Ferde wasn't in the room, he came to the doorway.

"What took you so long?" Cecie asked in a low voice.

"Got held up by Alice," he replied, looking at her. "How's it going in there?"

"Bad."

"They are treating him with the same unkindness as they have rendered to me, and he is one of their kind," Joe added.

Ferde set his heavy jaw and strode into the room. "Hey, Peter, did I hear you chewin' up Frank?"

"We're only trying to reason with him."

"Let him alone, Pete. Would you rather have him or someone who's molested children? You should consider yourself really lucky that you have someone as decent as Frank wanting to marry Bernie."

"If he isn't a virgin, he's hardly decent."

"Aside from that, you don't get much better than Frank. You think I was as pure as the driven snow when I married Alice? You think it bothers her that she wasn't my first? Remember Trina Wentford? Maybe we slipped up, but thank God we sorted it all out in the end."

"I'm only trying to keep Bernie from getting hurt," Peter argued.

"So do you have to hurt me in the process?" Frank growled. "Good God! You have less common sense than that Mecha friend of Cecie's—and you're treating me about the same way you treat him."

"But Bernie had nothing to do with that…that _creature_ ," Georgette said. "Did you?"

"No," Bernie said, not quite convincing.

Joe smiled and lowered his eyelids secretively.

"But can you continue to be strong in virtue for the rest of your life? Are you ready to be faithful to Bernie?" Peter asked.

"Pete, don't badger him," Ferde warned.

A long silence. "I'm ready to be faithful to Bernie, but I don't think you're ready to have a son-in-law like me," Frank said. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Frank strode out of the living room. He glanced at Cecie, then at Joe. "Did you hear all that?" he asked.

"Most of it, unfortunately. I listened only because I care," Cecie said.

"And so they render to one of their own kind the same breed of courtesy they reserved for me," Joe added with sympathy.

"I guess the gap between us just got narrower," Frank said. "Trouble is, it doesn't sink in on you. You're made of tougher stuff than I am."

"It does not affect me in the manner it affects you. If they cannot appreciate individuals such as you and I, they are, perhaps, unworthy of us."

"That's one way to look at it. I sure wish I could handle it as well as you do."

"Perhaps you could copy his style," Cecie said.

"As long as I don't have to use that hoity-toity British accent," Frank said, eyeing sidewise first her, then Joe.

"Does it bother you?" the Mecha asked.

"No, it would just sound weird on me."

"So what are you going to do now?" Cecie asked.

"I'm on my way to start packing," Frank said.

"Don't work too hard at it: don't lock your trunk. Ferde might still be able to get through to Peter."

He shrugged. "It couldn't hurt to prepare for the worst. But at the same time, expect the unexpected."

"How can you do that properly? Such thinking makes the unexpected become the expected," Joe put in.

"I'll tell you one thing to expect: I might come around for the stuff I loaned you, like that shirt you've got on."

Joe calmly undid the collar. "As you require."

"Uh, Joe, not yet. You can keep it for now."

"What was all the yelling I heard down there?" Sarah asked Cecie when she came upstairs, looking for Phila.

"Don't let anyone know I told you this, but Peter just chewed Frank out because Frank had a few, er, ladyfriends in the past."

"I bet even Sir Galahad wouldn't be good enough for Peter."

"I don't think so either."

"Hey, you could write a story about that: a medieval knight gets caught in some kind of time tunnel thing and he ends up in 22nd century America."

"There's an old movie like that."

"Really? It sounds good."

"It's a good movie for grown folk; medieval knights were a little more earthy than we think of them. Things were simpler back then. But maybe I'll write a story like that for folks your age."

"Sound like fun."

"But before I go off, what about what we were discussing? Do you sweat by the sun and the moon and the Dog Star that this lies locked in your heart?"

Sarah laid her hands over her heart. "I swear."

"Good. Thanks."

At that point, Bernie came up the stairs. She quickened her pace as she passed Joe, who waited on the landing for Cecie. Sarah glanced down.

"Uh, excuse me," she ducked into Cecie's room.

"Are you all right, Bern?" Cecie asked.

"I'm thinking I'd better pack up and go back to the Sister in St. Louis," Bernie said. Her left hand twisted her engagement ring around on her right ring finger.

"You can't cave in now. You have to be stronger now than you ever were. You have to cut the tie with the past, and this may just be the way that happens."

"But Peter will hate me."

"Ferde just might be able to change his mind. He's done it before."

"This might be the time Ferde can't get through to him."

"Start praying, then keep on doing what you'd be doing anyway—and I don't mean packing."

"If that's the case, then maybe all I can do now is pray." Bernie went into her room and closed the door.

Cecie went to Phila's room. She found the older of the Connelly girls busy stitching the lace cap of her wedding veil.

"What was going on downstairs?" Phila asked.

"That's what I came up here to tell you. Peter's trying to stop Frank from marrying Bernie."

"Is this about his past?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Phila laid aside the veil and stuck the needle into the pincushion. "This is awful. He can't do it."

"He thinks he can, and he thinks he's gonna protect Bernie from a bad decision. But I have a bad feeling that he's only going to make the whole situation worse."

"How worse?"

"If she doesn't marry Frank, she'll go for someone, or rather something else."

"Who?"

"That someone is standing on the landing, eying Bernie's door."

"Who? I mean, Kip told me Mat's been eying Bernie, but I never knew she had any interest in him."

"Not Mat. I mean someone who looks an awful lot like Frank."

"Not Joe."

"Yes. Joe."

"Excuse me," Phila got up and went out. Cecie heard her go downstairs, two at a time.

She went out into the hallway. Joe stood at the head of the stairs, leaning gracefully against the banister, gazing toward Bernie's door with warm eyes.

"Perhaps…if Frank cannot cut the ties that bind Bernadette to her old life, I may yet be the scissors to cut those ties," he mused.

Cecie stepped in front of him, toe to toe. "Don't even think that. If you didn't cost 20,000 NB, I'd knock you down the stairs right now for thinking that."

He stepped back from her, but he kept his gaze on her. "Do I detect jealousy in your voice?"

"No, I'm just trying to help save a good marriage. Excuse me." She stepped past him, heading downstairs. She passed Georgette coming up on the way.

The air in the dining room felt heavy with tension when she entered a minute later. Ferde, Frank, Stephen, Kip and Phila stood facing Peter across the table. Mat came in with Irene, whom he set down on a chair on the same side as the younger folks.

"If you don't let Bernie marry Frank, Phila and I will go to Rouge City and get married there." Kip was saying. "We can do without all these fancy preparations, can't we?"

"Yes, we can," Phila said, with surprising conviction.

"Besides, how do you know you aren't interfering with some vast, eternal plan?" Irene said. "Frank is everything you need in a son-in-law. As soon as Kip told me he'd found the girl he wanted to marry and that she had a younger sister, I started prying that, if it was part of the plan, she'd find the young man who'd be the best for her and her family. She met Frank at the convent shortly after that."

"I prayed the same kind of prayer Irene prayed," Cecie said.

"If you interfere with our marrying, how do you know it won't make things worse? How do you know I might lose the will to keep going like I have for the past three years and cave in to my old self?" Frank said.

Cecie heard Joe's light footsteps behind her and sensed that white noise that hovered about him. "I know I am but a Mecha, but might I put in a word?" he asked.

Peter threw up his hands in desperation. "Speak, if you'll stay out of this after you've said your piece."

"Cecie has told me that you worship a god who willed to become human and to walk among your kind. One wonders if, should your God Himself offer to marry Bernadette, would even He come up to your standards of which you take such pride?"

"By Venus, the machine said it best," Ferde cried. Said Mecha responded to this with a barely concealed smile of pride.

"But where's Bernie in all this?" Peter asked.

Georgette came down with Bernie. Peter rose slowly as Bernie joined Frank. She put her hand in his.

"I'm not letting him go," Bernie said.

"All right, I'll admit it. Frank, Bernie, I'm sorry. It was…unchristian and thoughtless of me to say the things I said. I take them back. I shouldn't question your judgment."

"And it was stupid of me to let you badger me into letting out things I should have kept confidential," Bernie said.

"I'm the one responsible for that," Peter admitted. "I'm sorry, Bernadette."

Frank slipped his arm about Bernie. "I think it'll work out anyway, by the grace of God." He turned Bernie's face up to his and leaned down to kiss her. She moved at the last second, so he ended up kissing her nose. Mat giggled half-teasingly; Irene let out an "Aawww!" Joe looked away with something like jealousy.

"I guess that means the double wedding is still on," Kip said.

"Good thing: we got two and a half days left to get ready for it," Phila said.

"But can we, like, have some lunch first?" Mat asked.

"Especially those of us who've had blood taken out of us," Kip added.

"For those of us capable of digesting it," Joe added, haughtily.

"Y' know, metal-boy, I liked you better when you were philosophizing," Ferde retorted.

After supper, later that evening, Peter retired to the living room to read that week's _Wanderer_.

He found that Mecha of Cecie's lounging in his armchair, one leg slung over the arm, reading a book. At first he—it, whatever—seemed to be aimlessly flipping pages, but he realized its eyes scanned down each page before it turned over to the next.

"Er, Joe, you're sitting in my chair."

The robot looked up, an odd look on its face—curious? Puzzled? Caught in the act? Indignant? He couldn't read its expressions well. It rose to its feet.

"Forgive me, I knew not this was your seat," it said, stepping aside.

"What's that book you have there?"

It turned the volume over for him to see. " _La Vita Nuova_ , or The New Life, written by your Dante Aligheri; he tells of his first love, of the joy and pain it brought him.

"You really can read that?"

"I can, though I must admit that read slowly for my kind."

"Aha." Peter sat down and picked up the _Wanderer_ , which lay on the pillar table at his elbow. He had hardly read the transcript of the Pope's general address for that week, on the inside of the front page, when he felt someone's gaze on him. He looked up.

The robot, now seated on the end of the sofa, had laid the book aside and gazed at him with that same look of blank interest mixed with something else. Pride? Superiority? Contempt? What was it?

"What?" he demanded.

"What…?" it asked.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I am merely looking at you."

"Well, you have no need to."

"I know that I do not. And yet still, I wish to know more about you by observing you."

"Well, what have you learned by observing me?"

The Mecha fixed him with its gaze in silence. What was it thinking…processing…whatever.

"You are, in fact, a lonely man full of pain. You fear pleasure, and thus you turn it into pain inside you."

"I…what? How do you know this?"

"One might call me, to use a phrase I have heard Cecie use in reference to me, a student of human nature. In order to maximize the experience of each of my customers, I must first deduce what sort of woman she is. I have used the same mode of inference in observing you, and I have reached this conclusion. Unless I mistake the data, I have guessed correctly."

"How do you know that?"

"Your eyes shifted toward me as I stated my deduction."

"All right, so you think the goal in life is pleasure? 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you will die', is that it?"

The Mecha's face went blankly puzzled. "The eating and drinking I leave to you kind, these being purely Orga functions. And yet I hope to make merry those who partake of the pleasures my company affords. And if your lives run so short a course, why make so short a time so unpleasant?"

"We're not trying to make it unpleasant, we're giving up something transitory for the sake of winning eternal happiness in heaven."

"But may you not allow yourself some happiness as you journey toward your afterlife? Can you deny that the relations between the sexes carry with them many treasures of delight, both small and great?"

"Yes, that's so, but that pleasure is there so people will be attracted to marriage and the begetting of children. You realize that…sex was created for the purpose of propagating the human race."

"I know that there exists a connection between the two, as far as your species is concerned. But is it not so that conditions have required you to limit your numbers?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But that doesn't change the whole meaning of sex."

"If you pursued that line of thought to its logical conclusion, one would be lead to say that every embrace must result in the creation of new life."

"Not necessarily, no; but it would be a good idea."

"So what then would you say of a couple who enjoy their embraces even thought, for whatever reason, they will not bear a child?"

"Well, as long as they aren't doing anything to deliberately frustrate procreation, yes, but they shouldn't enjoy themselves too much."

"How they could they enjoy their mutual company too much?"

"If you make it the be-all and end-all of the, er, company they keep, if they think more of the pleasure than any other aspect."

"But we are to bring happiness into the lives of those we encounter. Does that not also apply to lovers? Thus, should not some great element of their happiness come from the pleasure their company brings to them?"

"That's quite true, but they—and you-have to realize that these pleasures are transitory."

"Quite true. One must withdraw from the embrace when the climax has passed. But when one cannot consort with one's beloved, may not one recall with happiness the time one has spent in the arms of the beloved?"

"You can, but you can't think of that person as an object of pleasure. Which leads me to a question I've wanted to ask you: can you…do you feel pleasure in…what you do?"

The Mecha pondered this, or was it merely moving data around in whatever lay beneath that glossy-haired scalp. It probably had no answer.

"Just as I can sense pain, so also I can sense pleasure. I was built this way so that I might savor the duty of the services I render to my customers."

"So you enjoy…being with these women?"

"It is not only their company, it is the task of relieving their loneliness which brings me pleasure."

"So you were made to enjoy sinning?"

The Mecha's brow pinched slightly. Its eyes went even more blank than usual.

"What do you mean by sinning?"

"You don't know that your servicing women is evil?"

"Is it an evil to relieve the unhappiness of lonely women through giving to them the pleasure of a man's company?"

"It is the way you do it…by lying with every woman who comes near you."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Connelly. Not every woman who makes use of my services seeks my embrace. Cecie does not, nor does Irene. Many of my regular customers desire the pleasure of my presence or conversation, or my touch innocently rendered."

"But what about the women who sleep with you?"

"They alone sleep; I cannot."

"You know what I mean. I'm being serious here. What about the women who decide they want more from you? Aren't you aware of the sin you lead them into?"

The robot looked aside, its face a mask of blank confusion. It looked at him. "How do you define sin?"

"I mean a wrong act, an immoral act, breaking the law of God."

"I cannot break the laws of being in which I cannot believe."

"You mean you're an atheist?"

"I am but a machine, albeit an intelligent one. I lack a grasp of that which cannot be seen. So far as I know, I lack this thing called a soul which your species possesses."

"So far as you know…Do you know anything? Do you have any idea what morals are?"

"Do you refer to large paintings on walls?"

"That's a _mural_ , you moron."

The thing lifted its chin, its eyes growing cold with scorn. "I beg to differ with this term. I am a Mecha, an artificial intelligence endowed with a body designed to serve as a simulacrum of the human person."

"I know what you are, you're an infernal bit of machinery. You're one of the devil's best devices for leading us astray. You're—"

"Pardon my interrupting your torrent of words, but these statements have grown insulting. If we are to carry on this discussion like gentlemen, you would do well to divorce your thoughts form your more passionate emotions."

"All right, all right," Peter paused to breathe deeply and slowly. His temples had started to throb slightly. He looked at this metal and silicon entity and wondered if it ever knew what a headache felt like. Probably not, but for a thing that prided itself on rendering illicit pleasure, it was certainly giving and being a pain.

"Have you no shame? Have you no sense of guilt? Don't you have any idea what a wrong act is?"

"There are certain acts that are proscribed to me. I may not render my services to a minor, nor to a drunken woman, nor to one clearly insane or of less than average intelligence."

"On what grounds? Why are they forbidden and how do you know that they are?"

"There exist in my programming certain overrides, so in a sense, I have no desire to pursue these subjects."

"But if you didn't have these overrides, would you go after these sorts of women?"

"No, I would not. My logic processors tell me that to engage in intercourse with a minor violates the laws of the state, and that to engage in it with a drunken or insane or mentally handicapped subject would perhaps jeopardize my physical well-being and functionality."

"But still, those aren't morals."

"Perhaps they are not by your definition, but they are principles I must abide by."

"You have to have some definition of what morals are and are not. Don't you at least have a conscience?"

"If I do not have a soul, then doubtlessly I lack this function as well."

"Then you don't know right from wrong?"

"Perhaps first you should define what you mean by right and by wrong."

"It wouldn't matter if I did, you wouldn't get it."

"Perhaps I would comprehend or, as you put it, 'get it' better than you assume."

"By right I mean something that follows the first half of the basic moral law, 'Do good; avoid evil". I suppose you want me to define good and evil."

"It would clarify matters."

"All right, by good I mean something that enhances the life of the soul, and by evil, I mean something that harms or destroys the life of the soul."

"But is not the soul that part of a human which endures after the death of the body? How then can it be destroyed?"

"I meant that as a metaphor. Sin may as well kill the soul for the damage it does to the life of the soul. Do you understand this?"

"I believe I understand. The harm this thing called sin causes to the soul sounds very like a programming malfunction."

"Except that it's something you do to yourself; it isn't something that just happens to you like a programming glitch."

"I believe that I understand. But what sort of action you class as a sin?"

"Okay, a perfect example of a sin would be for a woman to…make use of your services."

"What makes this a sin when my services relieves a lonely woman's heart of its pain?"

"You didn't understand a word I said."

"I understood most of what you have described, but at this point it turns incomprehensible."

"I couldn't be any more clear!"

The thing looked at him in blank incomprehension, unblinking, which made it look even less intelligent.

"And they call your kind artificial intelligence," Peter murmured.

Cecie came into the room at this point. "Oh, there you are, Joe."

The Mecha arose and approached her. "Thank goodness you came here," it said, with relief.

"Is he messing with your processors?" she said in a "poor-little-thing" voice. She patted its shoulder tenderly; it took her hand in its own. She slid her hand free gently. "You go on out and meet me in the walled garden; the moon's rising and it looks nice out there."

"I shall count the seconds till I see you next," it said and went out by way of the deck.

She turned to Peter and said, "I didn't hear all that you said, but I couldn't help overhearing a lot of what went on. What was all that about?"

"I was only trying to give him some moral instruction," Peter said.

"You have to remember he doesn't think the way we do. He doesn't understand the concept of morals."

"He's an utterly immoral fiend."

"No, he's innocently amoral. He's in a pre-Adamite state. Imagine if God had created a man with the gift of reason, but without a soul or a conscience. You'd have something like Joe."

"That makes him all the more dangerous morally."

"He's not completely responsible for his actions. He has volition, but it's limited by the parameters of his specific programming. He's like an animal with the gift of reason and no other human endowment except for a body in the form of a human."

"But he's still morally dangerous."

"He understands the meaning of 'no' better than a lot of Orga men. And he knows how to respect someone's sensibilities: he won't do anything to anyone unless they let him. I don't let him get away with much more than friendly touches on the shoulder or the arm or such."

"I certainly hope so. I won't have you necking in the garden with that…impertinent machine."

"Pert, but not impertinent," she said.

She found Joe sitting on the edge of the basin of the fountain, gazing up to the sky. As she emerged from the yew tunnel, he rose and turned to her.

"Did I take too many seconds?" she asked.

"Three hundred too many for me," he replied.

"Was Peter hard on you?" she asked, taking his offered hand and letting him lead her to the stone bench.

"I cannot say whether the trouble arose from his convoluted explanation or from my nature."

"You're a very simple creature compared to us. Soulless, and therefore demonless; in some ways you have it better than we do." She slid her arms around his neck and stroked the sides of his head. "Did he give you a headache?"

"Were I suffering that pain, the very sight of you and the touch of your caress would cure that ill."

"Usually you're the one healing me," she said. He edged in closer, his face nearer to hers, his eyelids lowered. She let him go. "Nope, don't open up them there eyes and turn 'em on me."

He raised his chin slightly and opened his eyes, giving her the "sad puppy" look.

She poked him just below the ribs. "You adult-sized _brat_."

After breakfast next morning, Cecie, Phila, Bernie, and Georgette brought down the boxes of white Christmas lights from the attic.

"Are you sure those are gonna be enough?" Sarah said, trailing them.

"Allison Diocletian's coming with their lights; they do their whole house and yard with white lights every year," Phila said.

"Who puts 'em up?" Frank called up the stairs. "That jerk with the ice water in his veins instead of blood?"

"I'd like to know that myself. It's easier to imagine him as the Grinch stealing everyone else's lights," Cecie said.

"You shouldn't speak so disrespectfully of him," Georgette corrected.

"Hey, I worked for the buzzard for four years, I'm entitled to the fringe benefit of carping behind his back."

"Don't listen to Cecie; Shay puts them up," Phila said.

"Are you sure it isn't some serving man Mecha built to look like him? I just don't see him doing something like putting up lights; it might be too _fun_ for his sensibilities," Kip said, taking the boxes from Phila. He hugged her with his free arm. "Just remember to breathe deeply while they're doing the test."

"I will," she promised. She hugged him back and let him go. "Come on, Bernie."

Frank took the boxes from Bernie and set them on the floor. He hugged her tenderly. "It's not as bad as you think," he told her.

"Oh yeah? Who was the one who bounced off the floor yesterday?" Kip twitted.

"That was _after_ the test," Frank insisted. He kissed Bernie and let her go.

"I don't know why we have to do this," Phila said, as Georgette led them out.

"It's part of this crazy world we live in," her mother replied.

Peter came down with the last of the white lights and followed the rest of the group outside. "The only problem with using these white lights is you take away their significance. "They're really Christmas lights after all."

"C'mon, they're just white lights after all," Frank said.

Cecie, Irene, and Sarah had the job of detangling the strings of lights on the deck.

"That young friend of yours is a youth tonic," Irene said, holding the end of a string of lights while Sarah got the snarls out of it.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Cecie said as Joe came up the steps from the yard. He paused at the top step and smiled to Irene.

"You spoke much too soon, Cecie," he said, darting a glance at her. "Perhaps, were I permitted to linger here on the deck, instead of being shackled with transporting these strings of lights, you could continue partaking of this youth tonic."

"If he keeps whining about carrying the lights, he just might get his wish," Kip called from the yew tunnel.

"Don't give him any ideas," Cecie called back. She glanced at Joe, whose face had assumed a serenely innocent look, but she noted a twist of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Sarah and Irene had unsnagged another string, which Sarah passed to Joe. Her face went red as her fingers brushed his in the process.

"I have reiterated it ten times already this morning, and so for the eleventh time, I must remind you I was not constructed for such labors," he said, lifting his chin with disdain as he carried the lights down the slope.

"Hey, Joe, let's go!" Frank called.

"That decidedly is _not_ my epigram," Joe said coldly, as he stepped into the yew tunnel.

Allison came through the alleyway between the house and the garage, with a large box of lights under her arm. "Hello? Where is everyone?" she called.

Cecie stood up. "We're up here on the deck."

As Allison started for the deck, Joe came up the slope, long-stepping to her side. "May I assist you with that box, Allison?" he asked.

"Well, uh, thanks," she said. She let him take the box from her. He hoisted it lightly to his shoulder as they came up to the deck.

"How come we can't get him to carry the detangled strings that graciously?" Frank asked, as he and Peter came up to the deck.

"It's very kind of you to loan us your lights," Peter said.

"We didn't want your garden to look too dim," Allison said.

"So did you mark the strings?" Peter asked, opening the lid.

"Yes, Shay had the boys and me put green labels on the strings," Allison replied, reaching in and taking out one of the small plastic frames the lights were neatly wound around.

"Great, no more detangling," Sarah said with relief.

"But you'll still have to bring them down to us as we need them," Peter said, looking at Joe, who gazed at Allison with warming eyes. "Joe?'

The Mecha turned to Peter. "You asked something of me?"

"Yes, I said you'll still have to bring the sets of lights down to us."

"I'll do it," Sarah said.

"Lucky for me that you volunteered for this task," Joe said.

"But detangling them is half the fun of putting lights up," Cecie groaned.

"He _would_ eliminate half the fun," Frank growled.

"He just likes to keep it efficient," Allison said. She looked at her watch. "I gotta run. I hope the yard comes out well."

"You'll find out tonight," Peter said.

"Oh yes, the rehearsal."

"Be at the church at 19.30. The party's here at 20.30."

"Shall I see you then?" Joe asked.

"Shay and the boys and I'll be there," Allison said to Peter, but Cecie thought she saw her glance at Joe.

Allison left, but Joe lingered in the alleyway, gazing after her. Cecie went down and touched his arm. He turned back to her.

"What is Diocletian's relation to Peter Connelly? I have sensed an affinity between them," he said.

"They went to college together; Peter's an assistant to the CEO of the grocery store chain Diocletian works for," Cecie said, leading him back to the deck. "Peter helped him get the job he has now."

Sarah came up for more lights, keeping her eyes averted from Joe.

"That girl's got a crush on you, boy," Irene said. Joe looked at her.

"I may not approach her."

"I know you can't, and you shouldn't yet. But I've noticed that you notice her actions."

"She'll be a beautiful woman some day."

"She will be. I won't live to see her grown, but please God He'll let me watch over her from the other side."

"Perhaps another dose of youth tonic will ensure that you live to see her grown," Joe said.

"Oh, I'm only too willing for another dose," Irene said, blushing.

In the walled garden, Frank glanced up the length of the garden toward the house. "Hey, Kip, you sure we can't test the strings of lights on metal-britches?"

"Positive: not enough amps and nowhere to plug it in."

"You sure about not enough amps? I'd figure something like him would have plenty."

"I'm sure. If you're a mechanic and you've lived in Rouge City for as long as I have, you learn a lot of weird little bits of technical know-how about these things," Kip said, anchoring a cord along the top of the garden wall.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," he added.

"About what?" Frank asked, unrolling a string of lights from its plastic frame.

"You said you started living celibate three years ago, right?"

"I sure did."

"And you also said you covered a news story in Rouge City three years ago."

"Unfortunately, yeah."

"Why do I have a funny feeling in my stomach that there's a connection between the two events?"

Frank slung the string of lights around his neck. "Kip, my brother-in-law to be, you're as keen at deduction as a lover-Mecha. You're dead right: there is a connection.

"This friend of mine who works in one of the night clubs in the city greased the skids and got me a table at Tails, which being, as you know better than me, the swankiest, most expensive joint in the whole dump. He'd been telling me about the Sierra class Mechas that had just been brought in from Stockholm, how I had to try one, y' know, 'You'd never know you were getting it on with silicon', y' know. Well, lemme tell you, the very sight of the one I chose was almost enough to make me convert then and there. I mean, you know how most sex-Mechas look just a little too perfect? Things like our dear little friend Joe."

"Yeah, except he now has one physical flaw: that blemish on his left cheek where I had to weld a crack on his infrastructure. Go on."

Frank paced, his thumbs through the cord of the light string. "Well, this chick, Ingaborg, or whatever they called her, didn't have that too-perfect look. I mean, she looked Orga; I almost took her for one.

"But then, later, she—ahem—proved to me that she really was only a machine."

"What happened?"

"I had no idea at first. All I know is I felt every hair on my body stand on end and I blacked out. I woke up in a hospital in Camden a day later, paralyzed from the waist down. The doctors told me the Mecha had malfunctioned: a power surge or something. I could have died, but thank God I didn't. The paralysis went away a day later. But pretty soon, I'm afraid, Bernie's gonna discover I have a weird-looking burn mark in a none-too-strategic area."

"Talk about a wake up jolt."

"Yeah, made me decide to stop acting like there was no tomorrow. Bern came along at a good time, the honeymoon period of my conversion had just started to wear off and I'd just started having those questions in the back of my head: 'Why did y' make this decision, Frank?' And 'Whaddya mean, no sex?' stuff like that."

"And then she came along."

"Yep, she was my reason for living clean. Thanks for sticking up for me yesterday."

"Hey, anything to help. Now, don't let Peter hear this, he'd be livid."

Peter stepped out of the yew tunnel. "I'm afraid I'll have to deny you that caution. No, don't look ashamed. It was a question I'd wanted to ask you anyway."

At seven, as the sun started to sink behind the trees and the sky darkened, Peter let Kip do the honors and throw the master switch in the basement to turn on the backyard lighting.

The yard glowed like a fairyland. The lights on the fountain shifted colors: red to green to blue and back. The yew tunnel shone with a mist of lights on its underside. Lights outlined the walls of the walled garden and framed its window holes. More lights outlined the bridge, reflecting off the water.

"It's like a million fire sprites came to hover in the trees," Sarah cried.

Cecie, sitting on the deck with Joe at her side, unconsciously put her arm about him. He glanced at her and encircled her waist with his arm, finding her other hand and clasping it tenderly.

The rehearsal went as Cecie expected it would. Teddy, the younger of the Diocletians' sons had been chosen to be ring-bearer, a duty he clearly loathed from the way he thunked down the aisle when they rehearsed the procession ("Teddy! Pick Up YOUR FEET!" Diocletian had shouted at him.). Terez Bax's seven-year old cousin Dina would be the flower girl, a duty she obviously anticipated by the way she minced down the aisle. During a lull at the foot of the altar, when Peter got into a discussion with Father Kunstler's stand-in Father Slope about the arrangement of the wedding party in the sanctuary, Dina poked Cecie's arm.

"Is yer friend fake or is my grandmother tellin' stories?" she pig-whispered to Cecie.

"None of your business," Cecie hissed.

A moment later, with Peter and Father Slope still conferring, Joe suddenly jolted, letting out a high-pitched shriek.

"OUCH!"

Dina, who stood just in front of Cecie and Joe, looked very innocent.

"Who, or was it what made that infernal noise?" Father Slope demanded.

Joe cast a baleful glance at Dina. "This young…Orga female has stuck my hand with a corsage pin." He held up his injured hand. Cecie saw a small mark on the back of his hand.

Father Slope regarded Joe coldly for a second. "Must we have… _that_ in the wedding party, much less in the church?"

"He didn't cause any trouble Sunday at Mass," Cecie said. "Either he stays or we both go." To Joe she added in a low voice. "Don't take it personally; she makes a blood sport out of throwing pebbles at service droids. And I won't tell you what she does to her Supertoys: if you could dream, it would give you nightmares."

"Perhaps she serves as sufficient proof for limiting your numbers," he replied in an undertone.

"No, she's what you get from this one-to-two kids policy."

The Connellys could have afforded a more lavish rehearsal party, but they wisely chose to reserve the major festivities till after the wedding ceremony, where it rightly belonged. The families of the members of the wedding party gathered on the back deck for some old-fashioned conversation and punch…for those able to drink it.

"With Phila and Bernie getting married, perhaps you should consider settling down, Cecie," Conrad Bax, Terez's father, suggested.

"In some ways, I've already settled down," Cecie said.

"Well, in that case, perhaps you, young man, should do the right thing for this young lady." He directed this to Joe, who sat on the deck at Cecie's feet, reclining gracefully like some male odalisque.

Cecie almost replied, but Joe got the first word. "That depends upon what you mean by doing the right thing for someone."

"Aw, you know I meant you should marry her."

Cecie swallowed a howl of laughter and started to open her mouth to intervene, but again Joe stepped into the breach for her.

He cocked his head and smiled thinly at Conrad. "Have you forgotten that I am of a kind that neither marries nor gives in marriage?"

"Oops, sorry. It's a little hard to remember that you're…uh…" Turing's test had struck again.

Joe brushed it aside with one hand gently spread. "It is nothing of consequence."

The next day, everything came at once: first the dress boxes from Miss Araminta's shop showed up: bridesmaids' dresses and wedding gowns; then came the boxes from the formal shop. Next the trucks and the crew arrived from the tent rental and started erecting the marquee tent and the dance floor on the Bowling Green.

"It's gonna be one fun floor to dance on with all those bumps in the lawn," Kip said, watching the crew from the deck.

"It's a Bowling Green, not a pool table, y' know," Frank said. "Betcha ten NB the only one who can dance on it is Cecie's escort."

"And the way he's been acting, he'd complain about it hurting his delicate feet."

Sarah's dress hadn't been hemmed enough, so Phila had to baste the hem.

"Is this an ill omen on the eve of the wedding?" Sarah asked dramatically, her hands clasped before her.

"No, it just means someone didn't use the right measurements," Phila said.

Phila and Bernie washed the dishes that night. Everyone had been slightly on edge all day, what with all the last minute concerns. Frank had been especially daffy as he cleared the dinner table, singing some very inane song about someone sending Sven ten tents.

Bernie went out into the now-darkened yard to survey everything. The lights were off in the yew tunnel, and a single floodlight shone in the walled garden. She stood on the footbridge, gazing across the water to the ghost-castle of the marquee. She breathed a deep sigh. This time tomorrow night she would be waltzing on the dance floor with her husband. Frank Sweitz. Mrs. Frank Sweitz. Bernadette Sweitz (Mrs. F.). Mr. and Mrs. Francis J.X. Sweitz of Albany, New York. And then…and then…she couldn't even imagine what the wedding night would be like. For starters she had absolutely no idea what it would entail. Secondly…secondly, she didn't know if she should think of Frank like that. He liked to kid around with her, but the thought of actually…

Masculine laughter broke out from the garage loft. Something was up. "Take _that_ , Mr. One-Percent-Body-Fat!" Frank's voice hollered gleefully. She'd had a glimpse the week before of Frank minus his shirt, trimming bushes, but she hadn't seen enough to think either way about…what he looked like.

An odd sound approached from behind her, a ripple of sound in the night, a white noise over the chirping of the crickets. A light step creaked on the bridge. She turned around.

A tall, slender shadow stood there, poised elegantly, one arm resting gracefully on the handrail.

"Bernadette?" a sultry baritenor asked.

"H-hey, Joe, whaddya know?" The words came out before she could stop them.

He stepped away from the railing. "There are few things I strongly detest: one of those is leaving business unfinished."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean only the night in the Paradise Garden Club, the night when you let me release the tension in your being, when I first showed you that you were beautiful, that you could love a man and not know fear. You let me kiss your cheek, but you would not let me cut the cord that binds your lips."

"I don't know. I couldn't…I have Frank now."

He paced closer to her. "Tomorrow you will have Frank, but tonight you still have one chance left to finish that which you began with someone else…that which you started…with me."

"I can't, I-I mean, I shouldn't, I mean…I don't know what I mean any more."

He stepped up to her, face to face. He put his hands on her shoulders, light as a feather, the touch just pressing the fabric of her blouse against her skin. He ran his hands slowly down her arms, lingering, stopping at her elbows. "You still have time, but only if you are willing. I can do nothing for you…unless you first give me the sign."

"What sign?" she asked, just above a breath.

"If you will but take my hands."

She felt her arms stir and slide under his hands, drawing back. His palms passed over her wrists; she felt them cover her palms and his fingers clasp hers. They felt so like Frank's only…moreso. She lifted her face to his. She licked her lips, nervously, her mouth parted.

He leaned down to her. His lips brushed her cheek; she let him draw her closer. He kissed her other cheek, making contact. She tried to kiss his cheek in turn, felt the skin, softer than Frank's, utterly without bristle or blemish.

His arms slid down about her back; he laid his mouth over hers, gently at first. She sensed a gentle throbbing against his chest…had he a heart under there? Breath from his nostrils fanned her face and the masculine scent from his skin made her think of Frank.

He retracted slightly and held her closer. Her stomach tightened then relaxed against his shirtfront. She felt the tip of his tongue part her jaws. She clung to him, her hands gripping whatever structures he had under the simulated flesh of his back that replicated shoulder blades.

He withdrew from her mouth for a split second; then she found herself kissing him back as she'd never let herself do with Frank. She let herself explore the lining of his mouth, finding the salt sweetness there.

She let him press her even closer to him, feeling that…something…below his waistband. Her knees went weak under her and she sank down backward, slowly, Joe on top of her, bearing down gently.

As his weight pressed her to the decking, something exploded inside her head. She could only see Frank's face. She resisted, tightened. She broke free of Joe's embrace. Those feelings! Those damned, hellish feelings!

He tried to hold onto her, but she kicked him away violently. She heard his scream, then a loud splash.

She jumped up and looked over the railing. The surface rippled. Could he get out? Should she run for help? Would the water damage him?

The surface broke. Joe emerged from the water, dripping from head to toe. She fled to the house. Distantly, she heard him splashing about. Then she heard his footsteps on the path. She bolted for the deck and ran inside.

Once out of the water, Joe paused long enough to run a quick self-diagnostic. The water had caused him no damage. His pain receptors still fired where Bernie had kicked him. He centered the diagnostic on the 'injured' area. No damage, just pressure against the tubes and pumps and pressure releases; already the pain impulses had started to diminish. He still would function up to normal capacity. It would hardly be the first time a disgruntled woman had kicked him in the groin.

Phila was trying the altered dress on Sarah to see if the hem had come out right. Georgette was going over a checklist with Cecie.

"Bernie, are you all right?" Phila asked.

"Joe came up—behind me—on the bridge. I got scared—I knocked him—in the water."

Georgette looked at Cecie. "Can he swim?"

"He can fish himself out. It's not deep and he's tall enough."

Wet footsteps squelching on the deck told them Joe had survived his watery ordeal. Cecie went out to him.

"What happened?" she demanded, taking him aside. "Tell me the short version—in an undertone."

He glanced over her shoulder toward the screen door. "It seemed at first I might still be the one to cut the last tie that still binds her soul to her old life, but she grew frightened and she pushed me away so violently that I dropped into the pond.

"Stay right here. Do not budge if you value your functionality." She went to the wall of the garage. "Hey, Frank?"

Frank came to the open window and put his head out. "What's going on? We heard a splash and a lot of scampering around."

"I have endured a misadventure with a pond," Joe announced.

"Okay, I get the picture: one shirt and one pair of pants coming up—make that coming _down_." Frank pulled his head in.

A moment later, a gray work shirt and a pair of khaki-colored corduroys dropped out the window. Cecie caught them and marched Joe up to the house and inside.

She found a clean towel and sent him into the bathroom to change and dry himself off.

"Will his things be all right?" Georgette asked as she and Cecie hung them up to dry in the laundry room.

"Yes, the shirt's some kind of plastic fiber, the coat's of simuleather—perfectly waterproof—and the pants are a synthetic satin."

"No…underwear?"

"You think someone in his line of business bothers with that?"

Bernie had gone to her room and stayed there for the rest of the night. She didn't even come down for night prayers, but Peter, surprisingly, did not insist.

"Wedding jitters," he shrugged.

When everyone else had gone to bed, Cecie went down to check on Joe, who lingered in the living room, sprawled out in Peter's armchair.

"You were trying to seduce her."

"I merely offered to her what her feelings told her to take."

"You could have wrecked this whole wedding. I'm beginning to wish I'd never brought you along. You've caused me no end of trouble."

He looked up into her eyes. "But would you prefer my company to that of another? Or to none at all save that of ordinary men?"

"Right now, I'm not sure. You leave Bernadette alone, or I will personally have you sent back to Rouge City nailed up in a wooden crate. Got it?"

He looked at her with a blank look. He got it. His face slowly resumed its default look, that gentle, genteelly smoldering look of sensuousness that always made her think of Rudolf Valentino in the antique silent 2-Ds.

"As you insist," he said at length. "But your voice still hints strongly of jealousy."

She took his hand in hers. She almost leaned down to kiss him, but she stopped herself. "You're still an adult-sized brat." She let him go and went upstairs.

"A dark, inhuman stranger threatens a virginal bride on the eve of her wedding; he tries to seduce her, but she strikes him and sends him tumbling, tumbling into a pond," Sarah whispered in the half-light, a sheet held over her head like a hood. She flung it back. "Is this a sign? What does this omen bode?"

"It's a sign I may have chosen the wrong guy—or at least the wrong kind of guy for a wedding date," Cecie said, winding her alarm clock. She turned down the bedcovers and climbed into bed.

"If you cast him off, I shall take him to my bosom," Sarah said, hugging the sheet to her.

"You only wish." Cecie reached for the bedside lamp and switched it out.

In the dark, Sarah lay awake, thinking of all the stories she had read of omens and signs on the eve of the wedding day, of strange guests come to the wedding feast…

She moved among a throng of dancers in a vast ballroom, two servants in golden livery at her back. Golden ornamentation covered the silver walls, black and white marble columns supported the copper-colored goffered ceiling above, while black and white and scarlet and silver tiles tessellated the floor.

She wore a sweeping gown of the eighteenth century all of black and white and silver and pearl. The black and white and scarlet and silver costumes of the crowd swirling in slow grace around her suggested Carnival; each dancer wore a mask, some the faces of animals, some of grotesques, still others perhaps of Greek gods and goddesses, nymphs and satyrs. She glanced at her own face reflected in a mirror on the wall: she wore a simple black domino trimmed with pearls and silver tinsel.

As she glided through the company of elegant revelers, couples would stop and bow to her as she passed them. She seemed to be a high lady, or a princess, or perhaps a young queen to these people. She bowed to them in turn, not wishing to seem proud.

Roaming through the glittering swarm, she scanned each masked face, seeking a face to glimpse beneath and recognize. But this could not prove possible: the masks veiled each wearer's face, hiding their identity.

Suddenly the graceful waltz tune that played, shimmering in the air, faded away to a whisper. The dancers paused; the crowd parted but she could not see who approached.

She felt someone take her hand and kiss it tenderly, lingeringly. She turned to look upon the stranger.

A figure in a flowing black cloak over a close-fitting coat of black satin with wide-cut skirts over knee breeches of the same sheening cloth knelt beside her, lowering a silver mask over his face as he withdrew from her hand. A scabbard without a sword hung beneath his cloak from a belt around his narrow waist. A wide lace cuff flecked with silver threads covered his graceful hand. He still clasped her hand as he stood up.

The sight of the stranger's mask at first brought her revulsion: it resembled some eerie, robotic form of a skull, almost featureless save a small slit of a mouth, a mere suggestion of a nose, and sockets filled only with dull gray orbs. But the memory of the stranger's lips beneath the mask caressing her hand lingered strongly enough that she did not pull away from the stranger, but only held his hand firmly.

A whisper rustled through the crowd: "The Knight of the Silver Mask!" she heard them say. "The queen has taken his hand!"—"He has kissed her hand!"—"She accepts his hand!"

She let the Knight put his other hand upon her waist. She held up the corner of her wide skirts as he led her through the slow whirl of a waltz. She tried to see his eyes through the lusterless eyes of the mask. She felt his gaze upon her, piercing, yet caressing, through the mask, his glances caressing her face so that she believed she felt a touch steal along her cheek, down to her chin.

Then the music ceased. The dancers halted where they stood. From the head of the hall, a great clock chimed the hour. Then sounded the strokes, thirteen all told. The guests removed the masks from their faces.

But no faces showed beneath the masks, only strange, metallic, machine skull-visages.

She nearly screamed in blank horror, but the Knight of the Silver Mask turned her to him.

The silver mask concealed itself behind a narrow, sensuous face. Green eyes unblinking gazed at her from a swarthy countenance…

Alone in the living room, Joe scanned every bit of auditory data that reached his sensors, identifying every sound and cross-referencing them to the different inhabitants of the house, going to bed. He made certain all movement had long ceased for at least an 'hour' before he made his move. He arose and ascended the stairs.

He paused on the landing, his boundary, and listened. A sound like a loud sigh emerged behind Cecie's door. He climbed the last steps and approached her door. He listened carefully. It came again. He put his hand to the latch and lifted it. She had not locked the door; he opened it.

He scanned the room, taking note of the layout, how it had changed since the first time he had seen it: they'd added a small cot-bed at the foot of Cecie's bed. He heard Sarah's quiet breathing among the nest of blankets on it.

He approached Cecie's bed. She lay on her side, facing him; her arms clasped the pillow her head barely rested on. She sighed, but she did not show signs of wakefulness. Her eyes lay closed, tears on the lashes. She lay still.

He climbed onto the bed beside her. He carefully lifted her head, rearranged the pillow and laid her head upon it. Then he laid himself down beside her, across the bedcovers, and slipped her arm about his waist. If she must hold something, let that something be him. If she dreamt of anything, let his image be there to comfort her.

He lay beside her, watching her with one eye, watching the square of window with the other, tracking the passage of the night into day.

As soon as the sky lightened, he arose with great care, so as not to awaken Cecie. He paused long enough to kiss her on the forehead and caress her cheek before he slipped out of the room and retreated to his appointed place.

Not a moment too soon. Ten minutes had hardly passed before Georgette peered through the living room doorway. She startled as he looked at her.

"Oh, it's only you," she said. "How did you—I'm sorry, I forgot you don't sleep. How was your night?"

"It passed without incident," he replied, "by contrast with the evening and, I anticipate, by contrast with the coming day."

To be continued…

Afterword:

Hoo! Time and energy permitting, I may get another chapter of this out later this week. I hope to complete this one and then work out the plot snarls for the rest of "Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth" before proceeding with that…we shall see what we shall see. But still, serializations are such fun: the most fun is keeping the readers in suspense.

Literary Easter Eggs:

"it's a Canon law…"—I'm not sure if it really is, but I know I read somewhere that in the post-Protestant revolution era (1500-1600) rigorist elements started to creep into the Catholic Church as a result of an over-zealous effort to restore the balance within the Church, and some scrupulous priests started asking for too many particular details in the confessional, so this had to be rooted out to prevent harm to the faithful.

" _Wanderer_ "—this is a real Catholic newspaper, one of my favorites (except when they attack things I hold dear, like Harry Potter).

"the goal in life is pleasure"—I had the good fortune to get my hands on a copy of Thomas Aquinas's _Summa Theologica_ , as condensed by Peter Kreeft, so I re-read the section on pleasure and its relation to man's happiness. Much of Peter Connelly's argumentation is based on a faulty understanding of Thomas's arguments, as well as a somewhat poorly elaborated sermon I heard the Sunday I wrote this chapter (I'm not criticizing the cleric who preached it, I just wish he'd given it a little more thought, because the rigorists could misconstrue his statements).

"large paintings on walls?"—I lifted this fragment of a line from the 1995 remake of the classic 1953 movie _Sabrina_ (one of the rare instances where the remake improves on the original); it's become one of my all-time favorite movie lines along with "Fate, it would seem, is not without a sense of irony." ( _The Matrix_ ) and "It's what I do." (Anyone guess what that's from?).

Father Slope—the name and some elements of the character's personality are an utterly shameless thievery from Dr. Slope, the pompous and irascible Anglican minister in Anthony Trollope's comic novel _Barchester Towers_. And while I'm on the subject of annoying but funny characters, Dina Bax is a thinly disguised version of the seven-year-old girl from hell my mother babysits; if there really were Mechas, she'd make life hell for them.

The dream scene—I based this on the carnival ball dream sequence in the movie _Labyrinth_ , but I also thought of the ball in Edgar Allen Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death", of Tanith Lee's exquisite "When the Clock Strikes", a dark, decidedly non-Disneyesque rewrite of "Cinderella", of an unusual German set design for a staging of _Der Rosenkavalier_ , and of the first half of Ravel's "choreographic tone poem" _La Valse_.


	6. Wedding Belles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Arrgh! Even when you have the time, you don't always find the time to get everything accomplished that you set out to do. Add a mildly killer attack of PMS to bad allergies…the Refugee has not been a happy camper lately. Needless to say, she managed to get Chapter VI off to you. It's a much shorter chapter than most of the others, because it started out as the first part of a much longer chapter, but in order to keep my promise, I decided to divide it up. The fun is just beginning…

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. Also, I am not responsible for which character has feelings for who…or what, as the case may be.

Chapter VI

Wedding Belles

They had breakfast early, in shifts, first the girls, then the menfolk. The girls had to have their hair and faces done at the salon and Cecie had to pick up her contact lenses.

As the menfolk started to move about, the morning quiet shattered: a loud, indignant scream erupted over the garage.

Frank, who'd overslept Kip and Steven by ten minutes, stomped onto the deck and threw open the screen door. He'd thrown on a torn button shirt over his half-fastened pants. Peter, hearing the commotion went to see what was up.

"All right, who did this?" Frank demanded, pointing to his jaw.

Someone had shaved off half of Frank's Van Dyke beard.

Peter turned around. "Christopher Orson Langier!" he shouted. "Matthew Langier…STEPHEN MARIA-JOSEPH CONNELLY! _GET IN HERE!_ "

"Forgettin' someone?" Ferde hollered from the upstairs hallway.

" ** _FERDE!_** "

Ferde, Kip, and Mat came into the back foyer. Stephen followed a few paces behind them. Mat and Stephen looked especially innocent.

"Do any of you know anything about this?" Peter demanded.

"I think Stephen and Mat do," Frank said.

Peter stepped toward the group. "Stephen, come with me," he said, cold-voiced. He clamped his hand on his son's arm.

"Hey, wait, don't lay a hand on him. I just wanted to know who done it," Frank said, trying to stop Peter. "Hey, Peter, let's cool it here. We can be cool about this."

"If he's going to pull stunts like this, he's going to have to be disciplined," Peter said.

"Disciplined? For God's sake, he's twenty-seven!"

"All the more reason." Peter led his son out to the back part of the house.

"Pete, you still doing that stuff? I tol' yah to' lay off!" Ferde growled, following his brother and his nephew.

"I don't like the looks of that at all," Mat said, shivering.

"Okay, so what actually happened last night?" Frank asked.

"Stephen got some chloroform from a doctor he knows here in town; we put a drop of the stuff a rag and draped it over your nose while you were sleeping," Kip said.

"I did the honors with the razor: all Stephen did was hold the flashlight," Mat said.

"So as usual, the least guilty gets punished," Frank said. "I wondered what that odd smell was when I got up."

"Yeah, like, 'whew! Do I need a bath?'" Mat said.

"Oh, I know I need a bath, for, y' know, the big night."

"So is that _him_ , or is that _it_?" Cathondra, one of the stylists at Cathy's Cut Hut asked Cecie as she trimmed her hair. Cathondra had glanced up at the huge mirror that covered the whole back wall of the salon. Joe sat in the waiting area behind them, scanning over a magazine. But Cecie noticed his eyes track across the room and his head turn toward where Bernie sat having her hair put up in a French twist.

"Nope, that's _him_ ," Cecie replied. She'd let him tag along only to keep him out of mischief, and to keep him out of Peter's way.

Cathondra peered into the mirror again. "Wow, you'd never know he's really one of, y' know, _them_."

"There's a lot of differences. The better you get to know him, the more you realize what he is. It's little subtle things, like, for instance, watch how his eyes move before he turns his head if he's looking across the room."

Cathondra watched. "Oh yeah, I see whatcha mean. Weird. Still, he's pretty convincing to look at. Is it true?"

"What?"

Cathondra leaned closer to Cecie's left ear as she trimmed the hair there. "Is he better in bed than a real man?"

"I can't say. I haven't 'done it' with him. We're just good friends. The most I ever let myself do is kiss him."

"So how was that?"

Cecie glanced up at the mirror; Joe was eyeing her over the top of the magazine. "That's privileged information."

"Aaaawww, yer no fun!"

"Besides, he knows we're talking about him."

"And he doesn't like that, er…"

"The problem is, he does in a sense. Hearing someone talking about him causes his ego simulator to go into high gear and then it's hard even for me to shift it down."

"Well, that's one way he's no different from most guys." They both chuckled. "So, is it really as wild _there_ as everyone says?"

"It is in most areas, but if you know where the quiet nooks are, it isn't so bad. The crime rate is actually a lot lower than New Boston."

"I couldn't live there, I'd max out my credit cards in no time, unless I found work. How did Phila find a normal guy there?"

"The Orgas who live there are regular folks like us, the sex fiends just come to visit."

"Well, I still can't see the natives there being like the Norman Rockwell types y' find around here."

Cecie shrugged, knocking some hair off her shoulder. "People are people wherever you go."

Cathondra took the sheet off Cecie and brushed her down with a whiskbroom. "How's it look?" She held up a small hand mirror.

"Sweet. You always do a good job."

"Like I've said, you got hair that loves to get trimmed."

Phila had just finished getting her nails done; Cecie drew in a long breath and approached Tami the nail lady's table closer to the front, in the daylight. Tami gave good manicures, but she was an incorrigible gossip and Cecie wasn't sure if she really wanted to hear three years' worth of gossip.

"How yah doin', Cecie?" Tami asked as she sat down.

"Oh, pretty good, a little nervous."

"So 's everyone when they're in a wedding. Hey, we just got a color you might like." She grinned like a mantis and held up a small bottle of neon pink polish. Cecie squinted at the label.

"Oh boy," she laughed. The label read "Rouge City Rose". "That's funny, but it won't go with my dress. I'm wearing black and silver."

"Ooh, dramatic, are we? Okay, you want black with silver tips, or silver with black tips?"

"Black with silver."

Tami worked slowly but efficiently, chattering the whole time. Cecie listened half-heartedly, letting out shallow "Mm"s and "Oh?"s and other conversation fillers wherever it was appropriate. She watched the reflections in the glass of the big framed poster behind the table.

"So I said to Stacia…did you hear about Tracy Gadson's husband?…Emily told me…"

A shadow that looked like Allison Diocletian entered the shop. She paused and chatted with Carla the receptionist, then went to the rear of the shop to have her hair washed. Cecie glanced over her shoulder. Joe peered over the top of the magazine, his eyes following Allison.

"Oh, there's Allison Diocletian. Have you heard about her and Shay?"

"No, what?"

"Well, Shay's been acting really cold toward her, if you haven't noticed. SHE told _me_ he's only been letting her, y' know, with him maybe once a month. So I said, Once a month? Why so little? I mean, you can get Viagra over the counter now. So she said no, it wasn't that and she made all these big excuses about his work and his age and all that, so I said, Honey, I know you can't really expect him to be Lothario at forty-seven, but once a month is stupid! Have you seen the inside of his inbox? She said yes, there wasn't anything there. I said, what about the hard drive on the computer, any pictures there the boys shouldn't see? She said no. So I said, well, was he ever delayed an awful long time coming back from any business trips, y'know, like he stopped in Vegas or Rouge City? She said no, he's always very prompt. So I said well, when did this all start? She said about two months after we had the basement redone last year and he set up the home office down there. So I said, oh, check the closet, it may be in the closet. She said no, they don't have a closet down there that she doesn't already know what's inside. And you know Shay's so cold no other woman would go near him."

"Besides, if he was carrying on with someone else, Peter wouldn't associate with Shay any more."

Cecie peeked over her shoulder. Allison sat in one of the stylist's chairs, chatting with Cathondra about the kind of things women chat about in salons: movies and their kids antics and books they've been reading.

Joe set aside the magazine he'd been scanning over and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his spread knees, hands clasped between, head lifted, his eyes on Allison. She seemed to ignore his reflection, but after a minute, Cecie noticed Allison's eyes dart to it and look away just as quickly. At the same time, he turned his eyes elsewhere. But as soon as Allison had looked away, Joe turned his eyes back to her. She looked his way again; he dropped his gaze to the floor. She eyed him for a second. His eyes rose, his head lifted; his gaze found hers.

At that point, Bernie got up from her chair, her hair and face finished.

"Oh, Bernie, you look like…like a queen!" Sarah cried.

"Pretty funny-looking queen in an old blouse and a jumper," Bernie said, but her eyes shone, pleased. Her face and eyes seemed to radiate with life; even Joe looked away from Allison to look at her.

On the way back from the salon, Bernie leaned forward in her seat and touched Georgette's arm.

"Georgette, can we stop at the church?" she asked. "I have to talk with Father Kunstler. It's very important."

"All right, but don't let it take too long," Georgette said, turning the cruiser onto the short road that led to St. Edith's.

Cecie, sitting in the back seat between Bernie and Joe, eyed the Mecha on her left. He kept his face averted innocently.

Bernie forced her legs to carry her up the steps to the rectory door and rang the bell. The door opened and Mrs. Blizitsky, the housekeeper and the sacristan's wife, let her in and led her down the hall to Father Kunstler's office.

"He just stepped out for a minute to finish writing his sermon, but he'll be right back," Mrs. Blizitsky said.

Bernie sat alone in the office, with only the ticking of an old-fashioned wind-up clock for company. The gentle tick-tick-tick-tick reminded her of other internal mechanisms, of a gentle white drone barely audible with the ears, a soft voice, those brilliant eyes…

She shook herself. On the morning of her wedding day, of all days!

The door opened and Father Kunstler entered. He was about Diocletian's age and about the same height and weight, though of a much firmer composition, the build of a Russian wrestler, but with the hands of a surgeon and the eye of a psychologist.

"Well, Bernadette, good to see you! I see you've been sprucing yourself up…for Frank?" He sat down in the wide armchair opposite her across the desk.

"Yes, I just came from the salon. I...I'm afraid I need a little sprucing up inside, very badly."

She told him all about the night before, in the garden, in the darkness, of Joe approaching her.

"I don't know what came over me. I wasn't thinking. I just acted. Maybe I was just so nervous and excited, part of me thought he was Frank, I mean, they look so much alike," she concluded.

"I've noticed," Father Kunstler said, nodding. "Yes, that's a hard one to admit, but you won't be the first girl to do something stupid before her wedding in a moment of excitement. I don't think you intended to be unfaithful to Frank, but you were treading on the fringes of some very shaky, if not downright dangerous ground. With all the excitement and the stress you've been under, you may have had a lapse of awareness and this, in some way, caused your will to short out for a second. And these creatures, Mechas, can confuse even the keenest eye, especially this young simulate-fellow. They built him that way. So your brain got confused. Your body and your feelings responded naturally to his attentions. Somehow your will got lost in the shuffle, but as soon as you realized what was really going on, it kicked back in and you stopped this from going any further. Correct?"

"Yes, Father. But isn't it…wouldn't a person fall under interdict for…consorting with…something like that?"

"You've been listening to Father Slope again. Rome is still debating the issue. It would be wrong for you to have, as they say, gone all the way with this fellow. But it probably isn't something so horrible that it requires the Church's special intervention. God knows people have been doing very strange things with very strange objects for a long time. It's only within the last thirty years they made something along those lines that could think for itself, or in this case, himself. But as I understand, they can act only if you have explicitly sought their attentions. I think he probably knows you have no further interest in him. I don't think you could have made it any clearer to him."

"I was so afraid I'd killed—I mean, damaged him."

"As I understand it fortunately or unfortunately, however you want to look at it, these beings are made of sterner stuff than we think."

"In that case, will you hear my confession and absolve me, Father?"

"Certainly." The priest covered his eyes with his left hand as she knelt on the floor. He made the Sign of the Cross over her.

While Bernie went in to make her confession, Cecie went into the church to make a quick visit to the Blessed Sacrament. She sat on the floor before the tabernacle, out of the way of the florists setting the flower arrangements in the sanctuary, and out of the way of the videographer and his crew setting up the cameras. Joe stood behind a nearby pillar, watching her.

 _Don't let Bernie get stuck with Father Slope; please, send Father Kunstler to help her_ , she prayed. _If I'm guessing correctly about what went on in that garden last night, don't let Bernie's spirit get more smashed up than it may be._ She darted a glance at Joe. _And don't let our fancy friend get to her again._

Frank had his tattered beard shaved off properly when he had his hair trimmed later that morning. The family had a light lunch of tea and milk and fruit and crackers about 13.00, eating in shifts, first the women, then the men.

"I do not understand this matter of separating the men from their women on the morning of their wedding day," Joe said to Frank as they walked from the house to the garage.

"A lot of people say it's bad luck for the couple to see each other before the ceremony. But actually, it's what's left of an old custom meant to keep the young folk from just running off with each other," Frank explained.

Joe bent his head, his brows pinching slightly. He looked up, "But is that not the crux of the matter? Your being united in an exclusive relationship?"

"Well, it's better if we do it orderly." He patted the Mecha's shoulder in a brotherly manner. "Don't let it get to you, fella. You don't have to worry about it: I do."

"Lucky for me, in this case, that I shall need never to trouble my brain over such matters," Joe said, with thinly veiled pride.

"I dunno, if you weren't of silicon, I think Cecie would want you for her one and only."

"She is not the only one."

About the same time, the flowers showed up. Georgette brought up to Cecie's room the wreath of lavender and white rosebuds Sarah would wear in her hair and the small nosegay of one Argent Cavalier rose and a bit of fern Cecie would wear in her hair, over one ear. Cecie helped Sarah put on her wreath before she pinned the flower into her own hair with crossed bobby pins.

"My goodness, Oh Cecie, you do look like an enchantress!" Sarah cried.

"I will in a minute," Cecie said, taking off her glasses. "I should have got these sooner," she added opening the case that contained the contact lenses.

"What makes you say that?" Sarah asked, hovering behind Cecie and watching her in the mirror.

"Because my hands always start shaking when I try to put these in," Cecie said, opening her eyes as wide as they would go, and tilting her head back to apply her eye drops first. "I'm always afraid I'm going to poke myself in the eye." She held her breath as she put the first one in, then breathed out and drew in another breath before she put the other one in. She blinked; they held.

Stephen, walking rather stiffly with his back arched slightly, carried the box of Argent Cavalier boutonnieres into the dining room where the menfolk had gathered.

"Hey, Steve, can you help me with this? My fingers all turn to thumbs when I try to get these things in," Kip said, fumbling with his.

"I'm afraid that makes two of us," Stephen said. "I never bothered to learn how to fasten a boutonniere; I figured I'd never have to. I always saw myself being the priest who blessed Bernie's wedding."

"May I offer you my assistance?" Joe asked. He already had neatly affixed the silver rose to his lapel.

"We sure could use it," Kip said. He let Joe take the boutonniere and carefully yet quickly pin it to his lapel.

"Is there anything y' _don't_ do perfectly, Joe?" Ferde asked.

"I was designed to be perfect at what I do," Joe replied.

Stephen handed the flower to Joe, letting him attach it. He watched the Mecha's deft fingers at work, with precision and yet with a flair all his own.

Joe smoothed back Stephen's lapel; Stephen looked up. "Thanks, Joe."

"You're welcome, Stephen." Stephen felt an odd sensation pass through him down his spine and along his limbs. This feeling almost eclipsed the dull ache in his tailbone. He looked again into Joe's face, but the Mecha had turned its—his?—face away, looking up.

Graceful footsteps padded down the stairs. A heavy silk dress rustled.

An apparition in black and silver appeared on the landing and descended the stairs slowly, seeming to hover from step to step.

A raven-haired demoiselle descended the flight of steps, her short hair neatly styled back, sleeked against her head like a black silken cap. A single Argent Cavalier rose gleamed against her dark hair. Her dark brown eyes sparkled with a light all their own. As she stepped out from the shadows of the stairwell, the daylight caught on the silver facings on her black satin bodice and flashed off the burnished gray metal color of her wide skirts. Was she real? An apparition? A simulation?

Cecie blinked once, slowly and looked down.

Joe approached the foot of the stairs; as she came to the last step, Cecie held out her hand to him and let him take it in his. He knelt and raised her fingers to his lips.

"My lady, I am your servant," he said, just above a whisper. He kissed her hand.

Cecie reached down with her free hand and ran the palm over the top of his head. She gently tilted it up to hers as she stepped down to the hall floor. He rose to her; for a moment they stood so close, their faces just inches apart, that they looked as if their lips might unite.

Peter cleared his throat, shattering the spell.

"Are Bernie and Phila ready?" he asked.

"Last I knew, they were about to come down," Cecie replied.

"In which case, the bridegrooms had better make themselves scarce," Kip said. "Mat, you got the keys to my cruiser?"

Mat held them up. "Got 'em."

"Good, let's vamoose," Frank said, looking toward the door.

"And how!" Kip cried. The three of them hurried out to front door.

Peter studied Cecie's dress fixedly. "Er, Cecie, don't you have something you can put over…" He passed his hand across his upper chest.

"Peter, it's a late afternoon wedding with an evening reception," she said.

"But you're…showing."

"She does not so anything to which one could object to much, given the present company," Joe argued.

"Not a word out of you, Mecha."

"Aw, lay off, Pete. She ain't showing _that_ much," Ferde cut in.

"It's too much for a wedding."

"I wouldn't say that," Irene said. She had wheeled herself into the room while Peter had been too busy yammering. She looked Cecie up and down. "She looks wonderful."

"You're speaking from a woman's viewpoint. For a man it's too much. She'll turn everyone's head."

"Maybe I am speaking from a woman's viewpoint, but you'd have to be extremely crude-minded to think she's really trying to put a come-hither on anyone."

The arguing ceased. More footsteps pattered on the stairs. Two girls in white descended. The sisters wore matching gowns, except that the bodice of Bernie's was patterned with iridescent sequins and Phila's was patterned with clear sequins and she had more lace at the high collar and cuffs. Bernie held back for a second, but Phila looked up at her, nodding to her to come down. Georgette and Alice followed them carrying the boxes with their veils, with Sarah lingering in the shadows. Reluctantly, Bernie came down, her eyes downcast with apparent modesty, but Cecie noticed her cheek twitch nervously.

"Are we all set now?" Peter asked.

"We are, at least, I am. Are you all right, Bern?" Phila asked.

"I'll be okay, just nerves, that's all, just nerves," Bernie said.

Peter and Ferde led the two brides out. Stephen helped Irene, with Georgette, Alice, and Sarah following.

"All of a sudden, I'm nervous," Cecie said, turning to Joe as he gave her his arm and they headed out after the others.

He caressed her hand with his free hand. "If I could sense this sensation, I would bear it for you."

"You wouldn't want to," she said. "And no more displays like that back there on the stairs, or we'll end up stealing the day from the happy couples."

"I could not help my acknowledging the splendor of your beauty."

She glanced up and down him. Fortunately for them all, the tailor had located an emerald green cummerbund, which matched his eyes, in contrast with the black cummerbund Frank wore. Less cause for confusion now. "You look dashing."

"I always look dashing," he said, with pride.

She poked him as he opened the front door for her. "Not another word of that."

The cars and cruisers in the parking lot of the church had overflowed onto the street by the time they arrived.

Cecie helped Bernie with her veil in the anteroom off the vestibule, but while Georgette inspected her work, Cecie surreptitiously peered out into the chapel.

"Did you invite the whole town?" she asked Phila, grinning.

"We just invited all our friends," Phila said, innocently, as Georgette dithered with her veil.

"Why, is that makin' you change yer mind about who or is it _what_ you got for a wedding escort?" twitted Carton Jacobi, one of the ushers. "Heavy on the _escort_." He eyed Joe, who ignored his remark, and added. "There'd be nothing for the gossips to talk about tomorrow."

"At the risk of sounding unchristian, they'd be talking about how bad you looked," Phila said.

"Or worse still, they would make note of the fact that the top of your head levels with Cecie's chin," Joe put in primly, holding his head a little higher.

Carton glared up at the Mecha. "Hey, I do _not_ take insults from machines. I've never been insulted by a machine before—"

"Yes, you were. What about the night the floorwasher spat the dirty water all over you?" Cecie said.

"That doesn't count; the floorwasher isn't smart—in more ways than one!" Carton said, taking his place in the vestibule with the other ushers: Diocletian, in the regalia of a Knight of Columbus, his dress sword at his side, Diocletian's older son Brendan, and Margi Donne's cousin Donald.

Above them, the organist started to play the prelude, the melody from Prokofieff's "Wedding of Kije". The wedding party moved out into the vestibule, arranging themselves in order. Phila, at the back, gripped Peter's arm; Bernie, on Ferde's arm, let out a little sob.

"You 'kay, Bern?" he asked. "You don't have to go through with it, y' know. If you want to back out now, now's th' best time."

"Ferde, please," Peter started.

"No, it's all right, I just had a bad fit of nerves. I'm okay," Bernie said, recovering.

Joe, at Cecie's side, peered back at Bernie, but she had dropped her eyes to her bouquet, refocusing.

Dina poked Cecie in the leg. "I think my grandma's telling the truth about your friend," she said, out loud.

"Shut _up_ , Dina Bax!" Diocletian ordered, even louder.

 _One good use for his nastiness_ , Cecie thought.

 _Lord, don't let me faint._

Though it wouldn't be so bad: Joe would gladly catch you.

 _Not in front of everybody!_

Does it matter?

 _Well…heck, no!_

The organist segued into Jeremiah Clarke's "Trumpet Voluntary and Air"; on the opening brass-like chords, the ushers lined up two and two and marched out, arms length apart.

At the gracefully accented midsection, the bridesmaids proceeded, two by two; Sarah bore herself like the princess bridesmaid she looked like.

Toward the last measures of the midsection, Cecie nudged Joe's arm slightly. He glanced at her; stepping as one, they took their place in the archway. She glanced at him and dropped him a wink. He winked back.

On the first chord of the repeat of the opening melody, they stepped out onto the aisle, down the white satin carpet. She noticed people in the congregation eying Joe questioningly, even coldly. Whispers and murmurs ran through the gathering-"Who's that with Cecie Martin?"—"Who'd she bring along with her?"—"Who _is_ that young man?"—"Not _who_ , **_what_**."—"What do you mean?"—"Didn't you hear?"—"Is he a man?"—"No, he's…one of _those_ ; didn't you know?"—"Well, I never!"—"That's what comes of her moving out of Westhillston."—"You know she moved to _that_ city across the Delaware, didn't you?"—"And now she's brought one of _those_ with her?"—"How dreadful, one of _those_ in our midst!"—"Well, you can say what you like, he's darn handsome."

The comments rolled off Cecie's shoulders as she and her escort proceeded to the sanctuary and took their places to the left, across from Mat, Kip and Frank. She'd gotten the results she'd expected: the noses of Westhillston were now out of joint.

A brief, thrilling pause ensued, then the organist played the quiet rippling chords of the melody from the opera aria "Casta Diva". The ring bearer approached the sanctuary, actually picking up his feet, carrying the wedding rings on a small square of white satin trimmed with white lace. The flower girl followed, not quite so mincing, followed scattering pink and white rose petals behind her.

Then all rose. Phila, on Peter's arm, came down the aisle; Bernie followed, holding Ferde's arm less tightly than before. Phila had kept her calm radiance, but Bernie's smile had just returned, though a few beads of nervous sweat showed on her neck.

Cecie later swore that, as Kip came to join his bride at the foot of the sanctuary, and as Cecie let go of Joe's arm to take Phila's bouquet, she felt the simulated pulse in his arm start to quicken. Bernie clearly only had eyes for Frank from that point on, but Joe's eye was on her again.

To be continued…

Afterword:

I had hoped to get to the rowdy reception scene, but that ended up being a chapter all its own, probably the longest so far. Lots of fun stuff in store then, including the three things that have to happen for a party to be a success: someone breaking a dish (make that dishes), someone having too much to drink (even I couldn't foresee who would get drunk), and someone tickling the wrong woman (now who would do that, and who would he tickle?).

Literary Easter Eggs:

Frank's half-shaved beard—I modified a bit from the Internet's Greatest List of Practical Jokes, on .shenanigans. Someone posted a bit about the outrageous pranks he and his friends played on his brother-in-law at his (the brother-in-law's) wedding: amongst other indignities, they shaved off half the guy's mustache while he was asleep the night before.

Cathy's Cut Hut—I based the layout of this salon somewhat on the beauty parlor where I get my hair trimmed, but none of the beauticians in this chapter resemble any of the gals at the real salon (Hair's to you, Cindy, if you're reading this!). Also, Tami the nail lady is based on the equally gossipy manicurist in the 1943 movie _The Women_ (The dullest movie I ever watched: the entire cast is _female_! Not a single male appears in the film.).

Cecie's appearance on the stairs—I listened to the exquisite "Presentation of the Rose" from Richard Strauss's opera _Der Rosenkavalier_ as I drafted this scene. The whole little bit at the foot of the stairs is meant to dimly shadow the action of this particular scene in the opera. (see also the note on Argent Cavalier roses after Chapter II to see how this ties in with "A.I.")

Spitting floorwasher—This happened in the grocery store I used to work in, but it didn't happen to the guy who was the model for Carton Jacobi.


	7. Argent Cavalier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

At last, the long awaited rowdy, successful par- _tay_ , also known as Phila and Kip's and Bernie and Frank's Comedy Reception! Enjoy! (Joe has caught my eye, and the band is playing a tango…No wait, it's one of his soundfiles.)

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I'm still not responsible for who breaks dishes, who gets drunk, or who gets a crush on whom…or what. Also, I'm not trying to pick on Greek folks, either, only the stubborn ones (I worked for some stubborn Greek folks for two years, so I'm entitled to a little gentle teasing.).

Chapter VII

Argent Cavalier

When the wedding party returned to the house after the ceremony and the Mass, an unfamiliar vancruiser stood parked out front, double-parked alongside the vancruiser belonging to Lenny Wilson, leader of a local society band Peter had hired.

Once they had piled out of the cars, Peter approached the two vans. He found Lenny and his group trying to convince a group of Greek musicians that they, the Hotspots, had been hired to play at the wedding reception at 121 Maple Street. The more Lenny and his group tried to argue with Ion Papadopoulos and his boys, the more the Greeks refused to yield and the more vociferous they got—in Greek, no less. They seemed to understand English perfectly, but for some reason they refused to speak it or accept any arguments in anything but their own tongue.

"Someone here know Greek?" Lenny yelled.

Frank left Bernie's side and joined the group. "I know some," he said. He tried to explain the situation, but he clearly kept stumbling over the words; the Greek band regarded him with scornful grins. When he finished speaking they laughed uproariously.

"Did I say something funny?" Frank asked of no one in particular.

Joe approached the group on the lawn. "Might I offer my assistance? I am fluent in twelve languages including Greek," he offered.

"Go ahead, Joe," Peter sighed, throwing up his hands in desperation.

Joe obliged, explaining the situation to the intruders with the intonation and body language of a native. The Greeks listened in suspicious bewilderment, but they soon gave way to grumbling acceptance and started lugging their instrument cases back to their van.

"Next time have you shiny friend tell us we were on the wrong street," Ion informed Peter in perfect English.

"I suppose if we'd let them stay and had you dance for them with a table balanced on your head, we'd be their friends for life and they'd make you an honorary Greek," Frank said. "Then we'd have another thing in common."

"Perhaps I could oblige them," Joe said, betraying barely veiled pride at his accomplishment. "Are you indeed an honorary Greek?"

"Unfortunately, yeah. My sister married a Greek guy, and I went a little crazy at the reception.

"Okay, in that case, why were these guys dissing me?"

"At the risk of uttering criticism, your pronunciation lacked the proper intonation and your idiom had too many flaws."

While the band set up and the waiters finished preparing the tables out in the marquee, in Georgette's room, Alice and Cecie helped Phila and Bernie gather the trains of their gowns.

"I hope you're not going to get involved in any wild pranks," Phila said to Cecie.

"Who, me?" Cecie asked with phony innocence.

"I suppose, when you find your dark knight and he asks for your hand in marriage and to be the lady of his castle, you'll have a train so long you'll need a page to carry it," Bernie said to Sarah.

"First he has to find me, and that's gonna be a long time before that happens," Sarah said.

Brendan Diocletian stuck his face around the open door. "Uncle Peter and Aunt Georgette want you out in the yew tunnel: the guests are showing up."

"Tell him we're coming," Alice said.

Perhaps the one thing Cecie detested most about being a member of the wedding was the receiving line: greeting and shaking hands with people she hardly knew, some she heartily disliked, some she knew heartily disliked her. She didn't detest the courtesy of it, just the insincerity of having to be polite to people she knew were snubbing her in the back of their minds; best not to stoop to their level. Phila's graciousness was worthy of a princess, perhaps Diana of Wales, the "People's Princess" of two centuries ago; Kip used his regular guy charm to his advantage: he seemed utterly at ease with it. Bernie kept up a front of polite shyness, the proverbial "blushing bride", but Cecie could tell she was terrified; Frank took up the slack for his nervous bride very capably.

Joe stood behind Cecie in a recess of the yew tunnel, out of the way. She decided it the best course of action—or else he'd be readily cataloguing the names and faces of the ladies for future reference and retrieval, if he wasn't already.

But some things happened as she expected. Clara Purvey wore one of her big, weird hats that looked more like a fruit bowl with all the weensy fake grapes and bananas and apples around the band; Dina giggled at it until Cecie discreetly kicked her. Mrs. Derek Anderson (widowed) brought along Skippy, her miniature fox terrier. Autumn and Jake Frost had come with their four-year-old son, who'd brought along a plastic baseball bat: "You'll have to excuse Kris," Autumn explained to Georgette, "He wouldn't come unless we let him bring his bat."

"Eep-kay your aye-yay on the id-kay with the at-bay," Frank hissed to Kip, in Pig Latin.

But at length the last guests had arrived and the wedding party was let free to mingle with the crowd—or not. Cecie chatted with a few high school classmates, introducing Joe to them. He got the reactions Cecie expected: thinly disguised interest from a few, nervy politeness from most. The rest tried to act as if the situation were perfectly normal.

"Oh yes, my mother, uh told me about how her college roommate had, uh, one of…uh, those," said Evelyn Stang, trying to maintain the proper "butter won't melt in my mouth" tone of voice.

"When her mother was in college, they hadn't come up with things like you," Cecie hissed to Joe after Evelyn moved on.

The next reaction had them both chuckling afterward. Keane Frost, Jake's younger brother came up to Cecie and Joe, looking the Mecha up and down. "Well, that's the weirdest lookin' guy I've ever seen you with, Cecie," Keane declared. "Is he queer?"

"I am not precisely of that orientation," Joe replied calmly. "In fact, I may be more adept with the ladies than you are."

"Figgers, he took my gal," Keane muttered, sidling away.

"Not that I ever was his girl," Cecie informed Joe.

"Small wonder it is that you were not."

The wedding supper was served sit-down style. Someone had mistakenly put a setting at Joe's place, but before Cecie could call the waitress to quietly rectify the matter, Joe had himself delicately inverted first the water glass, then the wind glass, then the plate after turning his chair back to front. The waitress looked baffled, but Joe calmly explained himself to her.

"I am Mecha."

"Oh…that's right, you're…one of _those_." She moved on rather too quickly.

"I should have warned you about the locals: they're not accustomed to your kind at all," Cecie said to him. "You're not in Rouge City anymore."

At length, Father Kunstler rose and prayed the blessing before the meal; Cecie heard Peter mutter something about the prayer not being specifically Catholic. Then, once the priest was seated, Mat rose to offer the first toast.

"I'm no darn good at stuff like this, so I'm gonna keep it short. I've known Kip all my life, use t' baby-sit him when his folks went out for the night on weekends ["Who was babysitting who?" Kip retorted.], an' Phila I've known about, oh, a year and a half now. I'm not gonna say a lot of guff about how he's the best cousin I ever had and how he's like a brother, and a bunch of junk like that, or how Phila's the best person who ever happened to him and how she's gonna be the best sock mender he'll ever have ["Huh?" Phila said, mock indignant]. I just wanna say, here's to Phila and Kip, and here's to next several dozen years of forever they got together."

Kip got up after Mat had sat down—on a buzzer Frank had palmed onto the seat. "Gee, Mat, that was, uh, really boring." This got the guests laughing. "I can honestly say that I've known Frank about three years now; Bernie I'm not sure about since she keeps hiding from me behind Phila's back, or Frank's as the case may be, so I'm afraid to admit today's the first day I really saw her face ["Yeah, right!" Bernie said, half-muffled by the laughter.]. Frank came into my shop needing a new axel bearing for his cruiser, and he's talking in this very fake sounding Aussie accent ["N(eh)o Aye wassn't!"], so I thought to myself, 'Who's this wise guy?' Three years later I hear from Phila that the little shadow behind her back has a gentleman friend, a guy named Frank Sweitz, who reports for the St. Louis _Dispatch_. So I start thinking, 'Frank Sweitz, wasn't he the guy who almost paid with Australian money because he'd just got back from the land down under and he had forgotten to exchange the last of it? _He's_ seeing the mystery girl? Talk about opposites attracting!' But I've gotten to know the both of them better these past couple weeks, and I've discovered they're made for each other. Frank is wacky but hard working, just wild enough that life for Bernie will never be dull, and Bernie will give him the kind of quiet and peace he needs to regroup after a long day of interviewing alligators [More laughter.]. He won't have to wonder where she's been all day ["Especially if she's been hiding behind his back!" Cecie yelled.], and Bernie won't have to endure a husband who comes home and hides behind the newspaper every night [The guests laughed uproariously.]. So here's to Bernie and Frank, that you may have many years together of love and laughter and ups and downs in the proper amounts."

Once Kip sat down, Frank got up, holding his glass. "In that case, maybe I should return the favor…I've reported on and written about some really strange things, everything from a guy who plays the accordion with his feet, to a party in Rouge City that's been going on for two years—"

"Four years!" Cecie called out.

"Correction: it has been in progress for four years, two months, nine days—"

"Thanks for the accuracy, Joe," Frank said, pretending to type one-handed in mid-air. "But perhaps the wildest story I've ever covered is one I haven't written about, though someday I should. I mean the story about how Phila and Bernie met Kip and Frank. The beginning has been a great journey so far. I imagine there'll be some wild plot twists and jolts, but its gonna be fun writing, I can see that much. So here's to the story of our lives!"

For their first dance as married couples, the young pairs had chosen the Waltz from _Der Rosenkavalier_. First Kip and Phila took the floor, then Bernie and Frank. When most of the wedding party and many of the guests had taken to the floor—and Kip had even lifted a laughing Irene out of her chair to carry her as he glided across the floor—only then did Cecie glance up at Joe, who had been eyeing her expectingly.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, bowing to her and offering his hand.

"Of course," she said.

The sun set over the land as the first dance played on. The pale sky darkened to a dark blue; the first stars came out, silvery against the deep velvet backdrop overhead.

To Cecie's utter expectation, several girls tried to cut in on her and Joe, but they politely acted as if these intruders were not there. She spotted Brendan Diocletian trying to get Sarah to dance with him, but she drew herself up in a stately posture of refusal, like a princess dismissing the attentions of a peasant. Cecie saw the young girl's gaze follow her

"I gather our young Miss Sarah wishes to dance with me," Joe remarked.

"I think so, too, but if she had the chance, she'd flatly refuse."

"Why would she refuse, when she desires it?"

"She's at an awkward age, all she can do is feel the feelings of desire and attraction, but she's too young to fully give or take what it requires." He looked puzzled for a moment, but he soon relaxed his face.

Cecie thought she saw Stephen talking to Terry Hawks, the girl he'd seen before he entered the seminary, a tall, willowy blonde, clearly asking her to dance with him, but she could see the gentle refusal in the girl's posture. Carton Jacobi came up to her and offered her his hand, which she took.

As the first dance came to an end, the gathering applauded, first the brides and grooms, then the band. Suddenly an awful crash shattered the air.

A waiter collecting plates tried to grab the Frost's son, but the little rascal scurried away under a table, brandishing his bat and scattering bits of broken china all over the floor. Jake lunged after his son, diving under the table.

"Well, they say in Samoa that a party isn't a success until three things have happened: someone breaks a dish, someone has too much to drink, and someone else has tickled the wrong woman," Frank declared. "So I say this party is off to a _smashing_ start!"

"Frank, don't let anyone hear that third part: we have two guys here with one-track minds: one who can help it, and one who can't!" Cecie called out.

Phila and Bernie had both placed their bouquets before the statue of Mary at the church, so they each had a nosegay with a few white flowers and an Argent Cavalier rosebud, for the moment the unattached girls had been waiting for. As the two sisters made their way to the middle of the floor, the unmarried women gathered behind them for the "bouquet" toss.

"Let's see who the lucky girls will be," Lenny announced over the sound system, as the drummer beat a low drum roll. Frank hollered something ridiculous in the background. "What's that, Frank? Oh… You hear that, Mrs. Langier and Mrs. Sweitz? This is the kind of brother-in-law you have, Mrs. Langier: he says 'Ready…aim…fire!'" Cecie laughed appreciatively. Some of the girls groaned. "Okay, let's see who the lucky girls will be."

Phila tossed her nosegay. The girls scrambled for it…and Priscilla Machan caught it. Phila hugged her ecstatically. Then Bernie got ready to toss her nosegay…Cecie saw it coming right for her and jumped up, pulling it out of the air.

"But who's Cecie gonna marry next year? It can't be…him," Winifred said, just audible over the cheers and clapping and laughter from the crowd.

"I'm so glad for you," Bernie said, hugging the taller girl.

"Thanks," Cecie said.

"And now, the gents' turn," Lenny announced. "See who next year's unfortunates are." The unattached men shuffled onto the floor. Mat and Jake even dragged a slightly bewildered Joe into the midst of the throng. "Okay, ready, Kip? No, wait a minute. Hold it a second there. What's wrong with these guys? Anyone know?" A pause; some of the girls tittered. "These guys look like they're waiting for a bus—except for the out-of-towner, the Gene Kelly-wannabe." Carton, at the back of the crowd kept bouncing up and down, trying to see over everyone else's heads. "And it looks like the U.S. championship pogo-sticker is back there. Let the little guy come up front." Carton elbowed his way to the front. "There. That's better. But we need something else, something to shape these guys up. Where are Cecie and Priscilla? Could you girls come out here?" Carton started eyeing Priscilla desirously as she came up to the front of the crowd. Cecie sought out Joe's eyes, but she found them already gazing at her. "Atta girls. Okay now. Ready, Kip?"

"Ready!"

Kip tossed the key over his shoulder—a blank he'd bought from the hardware store. The guys pounced on it—except Joe—but Carton surfaced with the key dangling from between his teeth.

"Oh, the little guy got lucky!" The band played an off key fanfare. "Okay, who's next? Frank? All roight, mayte, show us yer frowin' skills yer learned from them abo-riginnies in the outback." The band played a few bars of "My Boomerang Won't Come Back." Frank made like he was throwing a boomerang. Some of the guys fell over each other, trying to catch something.

"That wasn't it!" Frank called, grinning. Cecie giggled.

The drummer beat a quiet drum roll. Frank stood calmly, then suddenly he whirled the key over his head and skimmed it over his shoulder. The guys charged after it, but the key hit the floor and slid to a stop at Joe's feet. He stooped gracefully and picked it up, just as Jake made a grab for it. Joe stood up and eyed the key for a few seconds, then put it in his pocket.

"Hey, no fair! The fiberhead got it!" Jake yelled.

"Sorry, Jake," Frank shrugged.

"Who got the key? Could they hold it up?" Lenny asked. Joe obliged. "Oh, the out-of-towner got lucky."

"What is it for?" Joe asked Cecie.

"It's a crazy custom, folks do it for fun. If you catch the key, supposedly you'll be married within the year."

Joe put the key in her hand and closed her fingers over it. "You will have more use for it."

Shortly after that, at Frank's request—he even palmed twenty Newbucks into Lenny's hand—the band struck up a conga melody. The younger folk started a conga chain that stretched across the dance floor and out onto the lawn. The line double-backed and crossed over itself, which caused some crazy collisions and domino effect tumbles. Cecie and Joe got caught in a pile up, with Cecie laughing her head off under an utterly bewildered Joe, who tried at first to extricate her, which only made the pile up laughably worse, when he pulled her on top of him. Noticing she was laughing uproariously, he laughed gently as well.

"No more conga chains, I mean it!" Peter yelled.

"You may as well tell the stars not to shine," Father Kunstler said, laughing.

Frank extricated himself from the pile-up at the head of the line and looked up at the sky. "Hey, stars, you can save yer light! We got plenny of it down here!"

"I don't see them going out, Frank," Lenny called.

"Nuts! Nothing listens to me!" Frank groaned, pretending to mope away. Bernie giggled hysterically.

"Let me go find the master switch," Kip said, pretending to roll up his sleeves.

Through the next dances, Cecie noticed Stephen wasn't among the crowd on the floor. Terry was dancing with Jake…so where was Stephen? She finally spotted him sitting alone near the bar, nursing what looked like a glass of scotch.

"He has a mournful air about him," Joe noted, as the band played "Begin the Beguine".

"I don't like the looks of that. Here, I'll be back for the dance after this—I try to get them to play a tango." Cecie insinuated. She thought she told him to wait up for her.

She approached Stephen. "Hey, Steve, why so glum?"

"Oh, Terry doesn't want to dance with me," he said, studying the quarter-inch of scotch on the bottom of the glass.

"That's why I'm here."

"I figured you'd be dancing the next set with Joe."

"Not with your face looking like ten miles of bad road."

"Okay." He set the glass on a table and led her to the floor.

Allison Diocletian sat alone at a table with Winifred Bax and Mrs. Anderson, whose dog scuttled about under the table, yipping.

"Now why would one of _those_ catch the key?" Winifred said. "There has to be something to it."

"Oh, don't be silly, Winnie. The key dropped by…it, so it picked it up out of curiosity."

"Are…those things curious?"

"They inspect things they aren't familiar with."

Allison turned away from this conversation. A shadow fell over her. She glanced up, hoping Shay had come back from having a smoke with some of his friends, in the walled garden.

"I could not help but notice that you were alone, Allison," said a voice with a lordly British accent. She looked up.

Cecie's friend Joe stood before her. "Yes, Shay and a few others, men he works with, went up to the garden for a cigarette."

"And he left you alone with no one to dance with? If you wish, I can fulfill this deficiency."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't…I couldn't."

He smiled on her. "The stars in your eyes tell me otherwise." She looked up into his face, then his proffered hand.

"One dance won't kill me." She rose and took his hand, letting him lead her into the galaxy of couples.

Sarah watched all this from the sidelines. Now Mrs. Diocletian was dancing with that…that Mecha. She couldn't do that, could she? He was with Cecie after all.

But then, looking across the dance floor, she spotted Cecie dancing with Stephen. What was going on? If Diocletian knew about this, he'd be awful mad. But then, shouldn't he be dancing with his own wife? What was the matter with him?

She got up and looked around for Diocletian. You couldn't miss him: he was so tall. He wasn't in the tent, and he wasn't on the edge of the dance floor among the knots of folk talking there. She went across the bridge.

She saw him in the walled garden, talking with a group of men she knew only as business friends of Uncle Peter. She went up to Diocletian.

"Excuse me." He ignored her. She tapped his arm with a trembling hand. "Mr. Diocletian?"

He turned, looking down at her over his shoulder, none too pleased. "What is it, girl?"

"I have something important to tell you."

"About what?"

"It's about that friend of Cecie's"

"What about it?"

"He's dancing with your wife."

He turned completely around to her. "What?" His bushy brows snarled together over his tiny eyes.

"Go look for yourself." Sarah darted back, hoping to hide in the crowd. Now she was in for it.

Diocletian saw his wife whirl by across the dance floor, in the arms of—yes, the girl had been right—in the arms of that…that _robot_ of Cecie's acquaintance. And Allison was gazing up at it with a look in her eyes he hadn't seen for a while.

He tried to cut through the swarm that blocked his path, but someone caught him by the wrist.

"Oh, Mr. Diocletian, would you oblige a dotty old lady by dancing just once with her?" Clara Purvey asked. Her hat looked like the produce section.

"I really can't; I have to go find my wife—"

"She's got someone else for now, so why not let's you and me make the most of it, eh, son?" Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"All right, one dance."

Soon enough for Diocletian, the band played the last chords. The couples separated and applauded the band. Diocletian let Clara go a little too abruptly and went after his wife.

He found her sitting where he had left her earlier, her cheeks glowing from exertion. A new light showed in her eyes.

"Excuse me, Mr. Diocletian," said a young man's voice at his elbow. He turned and found himself looking down into the face of Joe the sex-Mecha.

"What do you want?"

"I want but a word with you: about your wife—"

Diocletian grabbed the thing by the arm, close to the shoulder—God, his whole hand encircled its bicep, or whatever it had there. "You stay away from my wife, y' hear? You leave her alone. She doesn't need you or anything you think you have to offer. She has me." He let the thing go so suddenly it stepped back to right itself—and maybe to avoid another onslaught.

Joe had picked up much useful data about Allison while he had danced with her. He could tell, by the scent of her skin and the pheromones she gave off, that she hadn't had a decent night in a man's arms in months, if not years. He rescanned the data as he watched Diocletian stride up to where Allison sat.

"A man who will ignore her as you do risks losing her to one who will pay court to her and soothe her heart," Joe remarked slyly and went to find Cecie.

"Thanks, Cecie. I really enjoyed that—gosh, that sounds lame," Stephen fumbled.

"'S okay. You've been uptight, having to leave the seminary, trying to find a job, and now with Terry ignoring you. It gets to you."

"Yeah. But you helped."

"Glad it did. I gotta run and find Joe before he finds the wrong woman to tickle."

"If he hasn't already," Stephen teased.

Cecie spotted Joe coming toward her through the crowd coming off the floor. She decided to thwart him a little and changed her direction. He turned on his heel and followed her. She let him catch up to her.

"Was that Allison Diocletian I saw you dancing with?" she asked.

"That was she, yes," he replied, open-faced.

Cecie cuffed his arm. "You naughty thing! I thought I told you to wait up for me."

"Did you?" he asked, innocently.

"Don't tell me you shut off your sensors so you couldn't hear me!"

"I cannot do that."

"Well, just for that, bad Mecha! No tango!" She started to walk away, but he gave her that irresistible sad-puppy look out of the corner of his eyes.

"Should you abandon me, that will only encourage my waywardness," he said.

She turned back. "You win."

"You knew I would."

They approached the band. Lenny and a few of the musicians were sorting through a few sheet music files.

"Hey, Lenny, you still taking requests?" Cecie asked.

"Sure, Cecie, whatcha have in mind?"

"Could you play 'La Cumprasita', the long version?" she asked. "Joe and I thought we'd give the Norman Rockwell crowd a very slight taste of what it's like in Rouge City—or Buenos Aires, for that matter—so we're gonna give 'em a bit of a show."

"Keep it clean, we got minors here," he warned gently. "Sure thing. Oh, and don't let this on to either of the happy couples, but you two together make a lovelier pair than both of them put together."

"I should certainly hope so," Joe said. Cecie poked his ankle with her foot.

"But how shall we present this?" he asked her.

"Just approach me as if I were any other customer hoping for a tango; I'll play along."

She sat down at a table, her back to the floor. Joe paced the floor, long stepping, his tails flipped back, head up, chest lifted, shoulders squared, one hand behind his back, the other on his hip. His eyes swept the crowd, but most often, they came to rest on Cecie.

The accordion player sounded off a few introductory chords, warming up.

"Imagine yourself, folks," Lenny began, setting the scene. "Imagine yourself in Buenos Aires in the early 1900s, in a smoky basement café, or maybe a balmy night in a palm court, open to the night sky overhead. Couples at tables are chatting, flirting, laughing together. An accordionist in the band plays a few notes, warming up. A few other musicians slowly join in, preparatory to the next dance. And alone at a table sits a beautiful girl, a lovely girl, a lonely girl, looking for love or perhaps lost a love, seeking to drown her sorrows in the thrills of the night and its pleasures.

"And out on the dance floor, a lone gigolo, a young man, a dancer, achingly handsome, dark and mysterious as the night, watches the lonely girl, paces, waits with eager patience for the first pulsing notes of that dance of which he is the king, the dance that sets every young lover's pulse thrilling, that dance, the tango!"

The accordionist swung into the brash opening chords. Joe spun on his heel and approached Cecie from behind, his steps perfectly timed to the rhythm. She half-turned to him in her chair, pretending to barely notice him. He danced for her, solo, for a moment, as if to say, _If to watch me is to earn my admiration, to dance with me is to win my adoration_. He came up level with her, stopping before her with a few heel stamps carefully timed to the accented chords. She turned away, feigning cold disdain. He drew a rose from the bowl on the table and offered it to her. She took it and dropped it on the table, letting him draw her to him. As he whirled her to the middle of the floor, their foreheads brushed each other. She leaned back, ecstatic, in his arms, her lower body against his. He stepped back several paces, dragging her gently before she matched her steps to his, sinking against him, her gaze mesmerized by his.

Other couples joined them, hesitating at first, but then growing confident. Even the Diocletians stepped out, although Shay nearly knocked Allison to the floor a couple times.

Cecie hardly noticed. She'd danced the tango with him before this, but not like this…not with such ardor. She felt her legs nearly give way under her as Joe leaned over her in a hesitation dip. T.S. Eliot wasn't kidding when he called dancing "a vertical expression of a horizontal yearning." More than once, their faces came so close, she nearly kissed him on impulse. He would have yielded, but now was neither the time nor the place.

The gently fierce pressure of his tight body against hers sent her temperature rising. She thanked heaven she'd chosen a sleeveless dress, she felt the perspiration break out over her back. But most of all, she sensed a different kind of fire glowing in his steady gaze, locked to hers, unwavering, brilliant, growing more ardent till she could bear it not longer and nearly cried out in delighted pain.

Her foot slipped under her as the band played the coda. She sank back, panting, on her heel, Joe on top of her, straddling her, nearly pushing her to the floor. He somehow salvaged their final pose. She smiled nervously at him as he rose and lifted her, still breathing hard, to her feet.

The crowd around the dance floor roared with applause and cheers. Even Kip and Phila, and Frank and Bernie came to them, applauding.

"You show-stealers!" Phila cried, pretending to be angry.

"One does what one can," Joe said, with a light shrug as he lead Cecie off the floor.

"I better sit the next dance out," she said, still panting, as he helped her to a chair. "That was great. That was really great."

"This was not your first tango, but this was the first time you could appreciate it with me at length and enjoy it to the full," he said.

"How could you tell?" she asked.

"You followed my lead better than any other partner I have had."

"And how many would that be?"

He processed this for a moment. "Two-hundred and thirty one."

"That many?"

"Most were hopelessly inept, but they too, must have their delight."

Frank came up a moment later, with Mat at his heels. "Hey, Cecie, we, uh, need your help," Frank said, in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Doing what?" she asked. "Give me a minute, I gotta catch my breath."

Frank took a ball of twine from his pocket. "Stringing Kip and Phila's room," he said. "C'mon."

"Only if you let my partner come along."

"He can keep watch, we need a good pair of eyes," Mat said.

The four of them slipped away up to the house.

Mat tittered as they crept up the stairs to the second floor. Frank and Cecie shushed him. Joe looked down the stairs, wary-eyed.

"It's the room on the right, right?" Frank asked.

"No, it's on the other right," Mat said. "I heard Irene talking with Ma about the, uh, bridal suites."

"Good. I wouldn't want to be heading up to meet with Bernie and walk in on Kip and Phila, y' know."

Mat opened the door and put on the light. He produced a ball of twine from his pocket and tossed another one to Cecie. They set Joe as a guard in the hallway.

"You see anyone come up, you duck into the room and close the door quietly," Frank ordered him.

"That much I can do," Joe replied, calmly.

"Oh, the practical jokes I have played," Frank said, threading string around a chair leg.

"Tell us about 'em," Cecie said.

"I'll only tell you the doozies…I finished college at the University of Saskatoon; now don't ask me how I ended up in Canada. That's not the point. The point is, I never played so many practical jokes on people in one academic year that I pulled there. One major stunt involved that insulation foam that comes in a spray can, which expands to many times its previous volume when you spray it out."

"I think I know what you mean," Cecie said.

"My dad's a builder, uses it all the time," Mat said, threading the string through the drawer handles.

"We sprayed a _whole_ can into the room of this one preppie type, which turned it into a solid block of foam."

"Uh oh!" Cecie giggled.

"Yeah, imagine this guy trying to get into his room when he got back! He couldn't even swing the bloody door in.

"Then the next good one involved this one guy who had made life hell for everyone on that floor of the dorm where I lived. One Saturday in winter, when we knew he was out for a few hours, a bunch of us got together in the yard and rolled a _huge_ snowball. I mean," he looked around and pointed to the rocking chair in the corner. "That sucker was as big around as that chair. He came back several hours later and found it _melting_ on his rug."

"Oh boy," Mat groaned, grinning.

"But the craziest one involved the girl in the room across from mine. But first, uh, Cecie, make sure Joe isn't listening to this one, because it kind of involves some, er, misconduct toward one of his kind."

"I have hardly heard much of what has been said," replied a soft voice in the hallway.

"Okay, this girl had one of the old-model lover-Mechas, I mean, this plasticky-looking hunk of junk—in all senses of the word. It was some low-number model like a J-M 23 or something."

"Oh yeah, Big Jim we call it. There's one that pests me once in a while outside the laundromat, but I found out I could blow it off with a strategically tossed glass soda bottle. For that matter, Joe would thank you for mistreating one of them." Cecie said, tying a string to the lampshade.

"I beg to differ with you, Cecie: I would not."

"He _is_ listening," Mat growled.

"Go on, Frank."

"She wasn't supposed to have the thing in the dorm room, but she had it anyway, and no amount of talks from the dorm matron could convince her to leave it home. Well, the dorm matron knew my friends Jake and Bo and I loved to play pranks on people, so she enlisted our aide. Ssssoooooooo…we stole this male mannequin thing from the fashion design school next door, brought it to Tina's room when she was out, deactivated the Mecha—which was so simple we wondered if she didn't inadvertently turn him _off_ by accident sometimes—took the clothes off the thing—and wrapped it in a sheet—put the clothes on the mannequin and hid the Mecha in the utility/laundry room behind a washing machine. Imagine how bent out of shape Tina was when she got back and found this utterly inert thing lying on her bed. She thought her silicon sweetie's batteries had conked out!"

At that point Joe entered the room and pushed the door closed behind him. Voices and giggles rustled in the hallway, then the other door closed.

"There's Stephen and Kip come to booby-trap the other room," Frank said, listening at the door.

They finished the work by tying the strings to the doorknob. Frank switched out the light; they slipped out into the hallway. Frank swung the door in, then pulled it shut as hard as he could. They scurried downstairs.

"Now what did you intend by tying the furniture together?" Joe asked when they had caught up with him in the back yard.

"When I slammed the door, the strings pulled taut and yanked everything out of place," Frank said.

"That stands to reason, but did it mean?"

"It's a practical joke," Cecie explained. "It's what people do to newlyweds, to tease 'em a little."

"I think I see the meaning of this," Joe said, still clearly trying to process it.

She patted his arm. "You're better at wit than physical humor."

When they got back to the reception, the crowd of guests was in an uproar, people climbing on chairs, women yelping and laughing hysterically, the men trying to corner Mrs. Anderson's dog. The band, or the musicians who weren't helping corner the dog, played a somewhat off-key rendition of "Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"

"I knew that thing was trouble," Cecie groaned.

"Mm, the evil little dog," Mat snarled, grinning.

"Are you sure it's a dog and not a big rat?" Frank asked.

The dog darted up the bridge in an effort to get loose, yapping in mad delight as it escaped the knot of men trying to corner it:

"Yap-yap! Yap-yap! Yap-yap! Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap-yap! Yap-yap!"

It ran right up to them, stopping short at Joe's feet and sniffed at him.

Joe looked down at it quizzically.

"Go away, small dog," he said, shooing at it.

Just as he did this, the dog let out a low whine and backed away. It turned tail and ran away yelping, hackles raised in fright:

"Aorw! Aorw! Aorw! Aorw! Aorw! Aorw! Aorw! Aorw!"

"I was expecting to have to whack that little cur after it bit you," Frank said.

"Good thing he didn't, or he'd have gotten a very nasty surprise," Cecie said.

Mrs. Anderson left shortly after that; she had to put her "little one" to bed, since he'd gotten over-stimulated.

"No more evil little dog," Frank said, returning to Bernie's side.

"What made him start whining?" Bernie asked.

"Ask Cecie."

Some former classmates who had all but ignored her in high school, suddenly eager to her the latest news of the past three years since she'd lived in Westhillston, however, had buttonholed Cecie.

Joe found himself alone. Mat had taken Irene inside; the long day had worn out the older woman and she knew her limits. He considered following her up to the house, but logicked that she had no desire for his presence. But he noted Mr. Diocletian away from Mrs. Diocletian, talking with Peter and a few other important-looking men near the dance floor. He scanned the crowd for Mrs. Diocletian, setting his face-recognition on exclusive.

He found her on the bridge over the pond, alone, gazing down at the water.

Allison stood alone, watching the play of lights on the dark surface of the water beneath her. Shay would have been here beside her, in the old days…

"Hey, whatcha doin' alone here?" asked a nasally voice, behind her in the walled garden.

"Oh, I just came here for a breath of fresh air," she said. Carton, his gait a little unsteady, came up the bridge from the garden; as short as she was, she could look over the top of his head.

"You interested in dancin' with someone besides the cross-bred and I mean _cross_ Irish clodhopper?"

"No, I really should find him and get going."

"Aw, c'mon. The night is still young." He edged closer to her; yes, she was sure of it from the whiskey on his breath.

"No, Carton, I'm very tired."

Someone cleared his throat nearby, though it sounded more like someone saying the syllables "ah-hem" very low and rapidly.

Allison looked up; Carton peered over her shoulder. Joe stood near them.

"Not you again," Carton growled.

"It appears that the lady does not enjoy your company very much," the Mecha observed.

"Hey, you git! We were just having a convers—hic!—conversation."

"She has not contributed much to the exchange, or am I mistaken?"

"What, can you cheer her up any better 'n me?" Carton demanded.

"Perhaps my choice of words would soothe her drooping spirits more deftly than you have."

"I'll bet," Carton growled, shuffling away.

Allison looked up at Joe, who came up alongside her. He leaned his wrists on the railing beside her hands. The band started to play a slow dance version of "I Only Have Eyes For You".

"Would you care for another dance?" he offered.

"Thanks, but no, I really should get back to Shay," she said, dropping her gaze.

"You are unhappy with him? I sense unrest and unhappiness in you."

"It's not like it used to be, him and me. He's just busy working all the time. This is our first night out in over a year, and I've spent most of it talking with Winifred Bax, while he's off talking with his business friends."

"He should exercise much more caution than he does. There are predators here; lucky for you that I came along and sent one of them on his way."

"And you're another?" she asked teasingly.

"Only to those who see me as such. But I have spoken much; you have, I sense, things you have yet dared to tell no one."

"Shay doesn't hit me, or anything like that. And sometimes he gets a little gruff, but that's just him. I'd just like to go back to the way things were when he and I first married. We'd spend a weekend once a month in a cabin in the mountains, or we'd send the kids to stay with his mother for a few nights so we could be alone. We still send the kids off, but it's never for us together. It's like he doesn't want me for love anymore; it's like he's got another source for that. And everyone keeps telling me the warning signs that he has another woman. But I think I know what the other woman is."

"And she is?"

"It's his job."

"It is not as if you are asking him for the stars."

"No. I just…I just don't want to feel so hurt inside." Her hand had crept onto his. He turned his palm over and clasped her hand.

"What has he done to hurt you so…inside?"

"The last time we were…we were _together_ , it wasn't so much what he did as what he _didn't_ do. The whole time his mind was a million miles away. I was doing what I could…but he wasn't interested. Not like it used to be."

"And so he takes pleasure in you and gives you no delight in return?"

"He didn't even do that. It was like…like being with a machine." She looked straight at him. She laughed nervously. His brow pinched, puzzled, but his clear eyes did not lose their calm expression. They reminded her of Shay's eyes, the same peridot green shade, only free of the murkiness. But then she remembered. She caught her breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"You meant no criticism." He gazed at her in silence. His eyes lifted to the sky; she found herself following his gaze. "If he will no longer show you the stars, I can show them to you. If you so desire, I can give you things he never thought to give of himself. I cannot take from you, Allison. I can only give to you."

His gaze had come back down to her. She held his hand tighter.

"I'd like that…I'd like that…but not now. I'll let you know when."

"I shall anticipate your call to me." He leaned over and kissed her behind her ear.

His hand on hers slid down her arm to her elbow and he gave her a tickling caress on the inside. She laughed and jerked her arm away.

"What was that for?" she asked, still laughing.

He smiled at her impishly. "I am only seeing to it that this party is a success. Dishes have been broken; it appears Carton Jacobi have had a few more than is wise for a man of his size. And now I have tickled the wrong woman."

She laughed at the humor of this; he joined her, gently. She went away, her face turning warm.

Cecie kept trying to break away from the knot of girls; she had seen Stephen shuttling back and forth to the bar a couple times more than he probably should have. And she couldn't see Joe anywhere: never a good sign.

She finally got away and went looking for him. She saw Allison, looking very pink in the face, coming down from the bridge. Cecie knew she had heard laughter from that quarter moments before. _The wrong woman just got tickled_ , she realized.

A moment later, Joe came down from the bridge, a rather self-satisfied smile on his face, but she noticed something almost gleefully fiendish about his expression.

"Are you trying to make trouble?" she asked.

"Rather, I am trying to ease the troubled heart of a lonely woman," he said.

"Don't do it," she said, taking his arm. "Don't forget I'm the one who brought you up here."

"I have not forgotten. It was she who first spoke to me."

"Yeah, right," she muttered, leading him back to the thick of the crowd.

She glanced across the floor in time to see Stephen slip to the ground as he tried to get up from his chair. Frank and Kip hurried over, with Phila and Bernie at their heels.

"Steppin, are you all right?" Phila asked.

"Ah'd be all 'ight if she juss lemme dance wif 'er wunst," Stephen mumbled. Frank and Kip picked him up off the ground, but he staggered out of their hold. Joe caught him halfway to the ground.

"We'd better get him upstairs before Peter sees him like this," Cecie said.

"Yeah, or everyone 'll have to listen to the lecture," Frank said.

"Or lissen 'oo 'um ssspank me a'gen," Stephen slurred.

"Here, let me help," Cecie offered, slinging Stephen's arm over her shoulder.

"Take him up to his room, quick now," Phila said. "Through the bushes."

With Kip leading the way and Frank at their heels, Cecie and Joe took the shortcut through the gap in the bushes that separated the Bowling Green from the garage. Stephen tried to walk, but he only succeeded in nearly pulling his guides down. Joe half hoisted Stephen onto his back as the procession ducked into the shadow of the carriage house.

Frank got on the step above Stephen, helping him up, while Joe guided him from below. A couple times Stephen almost fell on his face. But they got him up the stairs without much incident. On the landing, Frank and Joe lifted Stephen by the armpits and under his knees, respectively, and lugged him inside.

They maneuvered him through the darkened room; Joe, whose night vision had kicked in, got him to the bed. Frank got his half of the burden onto the mattress. Joe opened Stephen's collar.

"Y' know, yer a very s-s-s-sympathetic fella, Joe. Them that maidcha gave y' more ssssense 'n m' own father'sss got. You unnersstan' unre—urp—unrequited love."

"I was made to requite this love." Joe started away.

Stephen caught him by the lapel. "Yer my kinna fella. Y' don' judge, y' can' judge. Wissh m' father coo' be tha' way." He let go and dropped back on the pillows.

Frank had joined Cecie at the bottom of the stairs when Joe came down. "I guess the party was a success on two counts."

"Make that three: the wrong woman got tickled. And here's the guy who tickled her," Cecie said.

"I sought only to give to Allison the solace her heart longs for."

"I can't tell you what to do because you'll only ignore me." Cecie said. "But don't let Peter find out what you're about."

The four of them went back to the party. Already, Peter was looking for Stephen, but Frank told him Stephen was indisposed.

The crowd had thinned considerably by now. Frank made one song request for the last dance, "Moonlight Serenade".

Cecie had turned away from the dance floor, but Joe blocked her path, his hand held out to her.

"I have saved the last dance for you," he said.

She looked at him. "I guess I can forgive you for the trouble you've probably caused me tonight," she said, letting him lead her out to the floor.

She tried to keep him at arm's reach, but she found this almost impossible. She leaned in close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. The long day had taken a toll on her resistance. And if this kept him away from Bernie, so be it. With Allison gone, this narrowed his field down to two: Bernie and herself. She'd do anything short of completely putting herself out to keep him from getting at Bernie.

He leaned his cheek against her head and kissed her hair gently. Cecie, looking over his shoulder, saw Peter come up behind them and tap Joe on the shoulder.

"Not so close," Peter whispered and went away.

"Why then does he not correct his son-in-law?" Joe asked her. He turned her so that she saw to the middle of the floor, where Bernie danced with her head over Frank's heart.

Cecie pulled herself away from him. "He's turning his blind spot to them. They're preparing to get close."

After the last dance, Father Kunstler came forward and offered a final prayer before blessing the two young couples once more.

The party broke up then. Peter and Mat went with Kip and Frank to bring their bags up to the house. Cecie followed Alice and Georgette as they brought Phila and Bernie to the dressing room off the two lesser master bedrooms upstairs, just to help the brides take off their veils. Georgette sent Cecie and Alice out, leaving her to give her last instructions to her daughters.

"Hey, anyone seen Sarah?" Ferde called from the dining room as Cecie came downstairs.

"I thought she was going up to my room," Cecie said.

"Well, she ain't there unless the elves got her."

"She's probably out in the garden, looking at the moon. I'll go get her." Cecie went outside by the back door.

The white lights still glowed in the garden. Cecie surveyed it from the deck, looking for movement. She thought she saw a dark form in the walled garden, but she couldn't be sure.

"Cecie!" Sarah's voice called.

Cecie followed the sound, going down the steps to the yew alley. Sarah emerged from the trees and ran full tilt into Cecie's arms.

"Sarah, what's wrong?"

"Oh, Cecie! I should have listened to you!"

"About what?"

"Remember when you warned me about him? I thought you were just jealous, but you were right about him!"

"Right about who? What?'

"Joe!"

"What happened?" She knew Joe was not allowed, by protocol and programming, to touch someone Sarah's age.

"I just kissed him. One kiss. He said he wasn't allowed, but I thought he was just suddenly frigid. I didn't think it would be like that. Now I'm in trouble. If Uncle Peter finds this out, he'll kill me, and to hear him say it, I'd go down to hell immediately."

"Did you consciously decide you were sinning?"

Sarah looked to the ground. "No. I…I don't think I did. But it's grave…kissing someone…especially someone—I mean something like Joe…on the mouth."

"It depends on circumstances. You're young, you're only thirteen; you're infatuated with him: I've seen you eyeing him all week. So you probably weren't in full possession of your will at the time. You weren't thinking about what you were doing and you lost yourself for a moment."

"But I'll have to go to confession!"

"It's not a bad idea, but I doubt if it's as pressing a matter as you fear. Add to this the fact that it's late and you've had a very long day after a busy week. You probably didn't sin at all.

"Now, can you tell me where Joe is?"

"In the walled garden, where I left him."

"Thanks. You better go to bed before you do anything else foolish."

"I think that's the safest course of action, and avoid further demons."

"Not that Joe is exactly a demon."

"He's certainly no angel, either!" Sarah retorted, going up to the house.

Cecie found Joe in the walled garden, seated on the stone bench, an oddly blank look on his slightly slack-jawed face, the kind of look she'd seen it wear after he'd had dealings with especially rough customers, or the one time an especially brutal client had forced herself on him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I shall be…all right," he said. His programming was probably running a restoration of whatever overrides had been assaulted.

"What did she do to you?" she asked, sitting down beside him.

"She tried to kiss me," he replied. "She knows that I cannot and may not do anything for her."

"And so she persisted, even though you refused, so she grabbed your face and smooched you."

He looked at her. "Did you watch this transpire?"

"No, I've just got a good imagination. So your programmed nature responded and you slipped an override."

"Alas, yes."

"You're not the only one."

He made no reply. Then he said, "Your comment deserves elaboration."

"Not to you." She got up. "Come on inside; it's getting late and I want to see the results of the pranks."

Ferde and Mat already stood in the shadows of the darkened back stairwell, looking up toward two doors on either side of the hallway, at a right angle to the stairs.

They heard Kip and Frank come up the main stairs. The two young men passed by the head of the back stairs.

"You chickening out yet and thinkin' of running back to Rouge City and finding something a little less, er, dependent?" Frank asked Kip.

"Nah. And as we've been saying these past two weeks, don't let Peter hear you," Kip said.

"You ready?"

"Ready as you are."

"Well, good night and, uh, pleasant waking."

"Same to you, Frank."

They parted; Kip headed into the dressing room. Frank paced the hall slowly, long-stepping, his hands clasped under his coattails, paused at the end of the hall and returned, passing the head of the back stairs. He stopped and leaned one hand on the corner of the wall, the other hand on his hip, spine straight, pelvis cocked forward suggestively, whistling "I Only Have Eyes for You" under his breath. He leaned away from the wall and tried a few dance steps.

Kip emerged from the dressing room, wearing his bathrobe. "It's all yours, Frank. Hey, you look like something that ought to be hustlin' it on Main Plaza or Harlot Square."

"That is where you have doubtlessly seen me before," Frank said, softening his voice and speaking in a very bad British accent.

"Hey, Joe, you'd better go—and let Frank come up here."

"And prevent Bernadette from discovering and delighting in the services I could render?"

Cecie smirked at Joe and nudged him. He smiled back to her, with a trace of smug amusement.

"Wait a minute," Kip tugged down the collar of the interloper's shirt. "Why, you lecherous Mecha-impersonator! I shoulda known you'd pull a stunt like this." Kip slugged him gently.

"OUCH!" Frank squeaked, stepping back.

"You don't quit, do you?"

"Well, you helped shave off my Van Dyke," Frank retorted, normal-voiced.

"Kip! Help! The furniture's all messed up!" Phila hollered from the room across the hall.

"Gotta run, Mrs. Langier needs me."

"In more ways than ONE!" Frank shot over his shoulder as he swaggered into the dressing room.

Kip went to the door Phila had yelped behind and knocked. "Phila, it's me; it's Kip."

The door opened and Phila's arm, in the long sleeve of a flannel nightgown, emerged. She drew Kip into the room. The door closed.

"Flannel on her wedding night?" Mat groaned.

"How then is she to incite and excite the heart of her lover?" Joe asked, confused.

"Peter probably insisted on it," Ferde growled.

"That then would explain such an uninciting costume," Joe added.

Frank emerged from the dressing room clad in a maroon damask dressing gown; somehow, Cecie could tell he wore precious little else. He paused before the other door, next to the dressing room. He drew in a long breath, passed his hand over his hair, then straightened the skirts of his robe and knocked on the door.

"Bernie, it's your husband; it's Frank." No answer. He opened the door and went in.

"What did you pull on Frank and Bern?" Cecie asked Ferde.

"You'll hear it," the big man rumbled gleefully. "Whatcha do to Kip and Phila?"

"Strung the furniture," Cecie said.

"And they obliged me to act as sentinel," Joe added, his tone clipped with cold indignation.

"Uh oh, it's too quiet in there," Mat said.

The door to Bernie and Frank's bridal chamber flew open. Frank bolted out, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown. Cecie looked away, blushing.

"Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Get away from me, you…you…sex fiend!" Bernie screamed.

"Bernie, please believe me: I had nothing to do with the bells, honest! Bernie, I love you." Frank tried to reenter the bedroom.

"Go away!" A thick book flew out at his head. He ducked. The book hit the wall and banged to the floor.

"Bern, I'm not gonna hurt you. I couldn't; I can't."

"GO!"

He dropped his arms to his sides. He spread his hands slightly, beseechingly. "Okay, okay, we don't have to do anything tonight. Just let me come inside."

"NO!"

The door banged shut. Frank's shoulders sagged. He let out a ragged sigh and headed for the back stairs.

The conspirators tried to shrink back into the shadows. Frank stopped on the second step.

"I see someone's big green eyes," he said.

The group stepped out of the shadows into the diffused light from the further end of the hallway.

"You heard everything."

"Hey, we're all behind you, Frank," Ferde said.

"Whatcha gonna do now?" asked Mat.

"I have no idea," Frank said, sitting on the top step, throwing up his hands in desperation.

"Want me to negotiate with Peter?" Ferde asked.

"Would such a course of action prove wise? He begrudges them even simple knowledge of the embrace, much less respect for the pleasure it brings," Joe said.

"The fiberhead's on to something," Ferde declared.

"I would prefer you to not call me by so deprecating a term," Joe replied, stiffly.

"I'm gonna give it a try," Frank said. "You coming along to referee, Ferde?"

"Sure. I'll get in between you an' him if he starts throwing punches below the belt." Ferde put his arm about Frank's shoulders and led the young man downstairs.

"Well, I guess that's it for the night," Mat said, shrugging.

"You need a lift to the hotel?" Cecie asked.

"Nah, the walk'll do me good," Mat replied, starting downstairs. "See you tomorrow."

"G'night, Mat."

Cecie led Joe back down to the living room.

"Perhaps I ought to go up to Bernadette's chamber and make smooth the path for her bridegroom's passage," Joe offered.

"No, that's Frank's job. He should be the one actually deflowering her."

"But I have cut the cord that binds her lips," he said, bright-eyed.

Cecie nearly glowered at him. "Then you weren't bluffing last night when you told me about the incident on the bridge."

"I was not. Would that I could have completed the task of bringing to her the delight she fears!"

"I told you: _I'm_ the one who brought you here." She took his face in her hands, tilted it slightly and pressed her lips to his.

The slipped override had clearly locked back into place, freeing up his pursuit centers. She felt his mouth soften under hers. His hands slid to her waist, pressing her lower torso against his, the way he had that New Year's Eve…

She broke the seal that bound their mouths together. She'd heard voices.

"That'll be all," she said, breathless.

She went upstairs, quicker than she had descended. Joe watched from the lower hallway, his processors scrabbling to track why she had reacted thus.

"What did I do to elicit such behavior?"

Cecie approached the door to the second bridal chamber. She heard suspicious sounds behind the other door: bedsprings creaking and stifled giggles, a playful slap, a yelp, more laughter, but behind Bernie's door, she heard only jagged breathing, gasps, weeping. She knocked on the door.

"I told you to _go!_ " Bernie shouted.

"Bernie, it's me, it's Cecie."

The door creaked open. Bernie peered out. She opened it wider and stepped aside to let the older girl enter. Bernie wore her bathrobe close over her flannel nightgown, the sash drawn tightly around her waist, as if she'd fastened it this way on purpose.

A pillow had fallen from the head of the bed and lay on the floor. Some books had been knocked off the table, but the room showed no signs of a struggle.

"You could start by telling me what exactly happened on the bridge last night. Joe didn't just sneak up on you and yell 'BOO!'"

Bernie hung her head. "He came up to me. I didn't hear him at first, but I turned around and there he was. And I…I don't know what came over me. It was like I was back in that club, but it was like I was with Frank. I let him kiss me."

"You did in the Paradise Garden."

"He might as well have been the serpent with the apple."

"In some ways I won't question that, but go on."

"It…it wasn't just on the cheek. He kissed me on the mouth."

"He told me as much."

"And he held me…close. I could feel him…I could feel _him_ …I mean…his…his _parts_. And then my knees gave way and he was on me. He didn't push me down, not on purpose. He just leaned against me and I went down."

"But you said you pushed him away."

"I did to keep him from going any further. I…I kicked him _there_. I think I hurt him. He yelled."

"You might have knocked a few conductors around, but you probably couldn't damage him just by giving him a boot in the groin. They put a lot of shielding in that region, so the really vital stuff doesn't get damaged by, well, a really rough customer.

Bernie looked at her narrowly. "How do you know all this stuff?"

"I did a lot of research. Besides, I'm good friends with a guy who works for the agency that owns Joe. But go on."

"So…when Frank came in here, I just couldn't face him. If he knew, he'd never forgive me."

"He might get a little concerned, but I don't think he'd hold it against you. He's no stranger to Mechas, y' know."

"I know, but I wanted to be the spotless one, to balance it out."

"Frank isn't concerned about that. He cares about _you_. So why not at least let him sleep next to you?"

"I don't know, I don't think I could. It's late, its after midnight…Does Peter know about this?"

"I don't think he could help hearing all that noise, but Ferde went down to defuse the situation."

"I gotta sleep. I don't think I'd be any good to Frank anyway, after all this."

"Well, maybe not this night. But you can't wait too long."

"I know…he might go looking somewhere else."

"No, Frank wouldn't do that to you. It's just that if you wait too long to consummate the sacrament, it could become grounds for an annulment."

Bernie looked up at Cecie wide-eyed.

"Didn't you know this?"

"I probably did, it's just…I didn't think it would apply. Would Frank do this?"

"I doubt he would. But if you don't swallow your inhibitions, he might feel pressured to take this kind of action. I'm not saying this to scare you; I'm saying it to be honest."

As Cecie stepped out of the other would-be bridal chamber, she heard an escalating wail of delight erupt behind Kip and Phila's door. Bernie looked at Cecie.

"What would Peter say?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

She caught herself hoping Peter could hear it. And, for that matter, she hoped Joe had heard it, too.

"So if she won't let you sleep next to her, where y' gonna sleep?" Ferde asked, walking with frank back to the main staircase.

""I'm not about to go sleep in the loft with Stephen passed out there," Frank said, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his robe. I spent too many nights in college sharing a room with a drunk. The only place left is the couch."

"And doesn't that fiberhead have it cornered?"

"I'll find out."

Frank stepped into the living room. A single smart lamp glowed on about 20 watts of light.

Joe sat in Peter's armchair, his legs slung gracefully over one arm, his arms folded behind his head.

"You ever have that happen to you, Joe?" Frank asked.

"That a client refused my services? It has happened to me, though not often, and those who refuse at first generally discover reasons not to refuse me further."

"At least I'm not alone."

"In more ways than one."

Frank arranged some of the sofa pillows at one of the couch and lay down, his head propped on the pillows.

A moment later the light went out.

Cecie found Sarah curled up asleep on her cot. She closed the door and took the rose from her hair. She took out her contact lenses, put them back in their case and ran her fingers through her hair, mussing it all out of shape. She took off her gown and hung it in the garment bag in the closet. She shucked the black bustier she wore under it and pulled on her worn sleeveless black jersey and leggings she wore to bed.

She reached to turn down the bed covers, but she found someone had already neatly folded them down.

In the exact center of her pillow lay an Argent Cavalier rose with a bit of fern.

To be continued…

Literary Easter Eggs:

The Greek band—This is NOT intended to be a reference to the current surprise hit of the summer _My Big Fat Greek Wedding_ , because I haven't seen it, and I'm not sure I want to after working for stubborn Greek folks for two years. The "dancing with a table balanced on your head" story is based on something which I think Tom Hanks did at his own reception when he married Rita Wilson.

Pig Latin—I must have been thinking of Sully whispering to Mike in _Monsters, Inc._ : "Ees-shay in the ag-bay."

"The weirdest lookin' guy…"—I had just heard a record of Bill Cosby's stand up routine known as "Rhinoceros" in which he describes people's reactions to his pet rhinoceros, which had me literally rolling on the floor laughing. I modeled this whole section after it.

Kip carrying his mother—This came to me from a touching story about a former ballerina who had developed MS later in life; she kept dancing for as long as she could still walk. At her and her husband's fortieth wedding anniversary celebration, when she could no longer walk, he gladly and tenderly carried her in his arms to dance with her. Now isn't that romantic?

The Waltz from _Der Rosenkavalier_ —see the note on Argent Cavalier roses after Chapter II.

Tossing the key—Most wedding receptions I've heard of had the infamous garter toss: this is, I think, the New England variation on it.

"waiting for a bus…"—A lot of the funny stuff that happens during the reception is based on stuff that happened at several different weddings I have been to/heard about, including the "guys waiting for a bus" line, and yes, the kid with the bat (I don't remember if he broke any dishes with it, though).

The tango—I have to mention this: one theory on the pedigree of the tango connects it with Argentinean gigolos, since the dance was originally a solo for a man trying to impress a woman. 'Nuff said when you connecting it to Our Boy.

Spray foam and snowball in the dorm room—Another couple items from the Internet's Greatest Practical Jokes, taken from .shenanigans.

"Where Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"—It's that bouncy music you hear in the old cartoons when a bouncy little dog shows up.

"It's on the other right"—Stole this bit of shtick outright from _The Matrix_.


	8. Ringing Phones and Slamming Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Things really heat up here: lots of romantic interludes, ringing telephones, moral wrangling of all kinds…and a high-speed comedy known as a door-slammer. But then again, one of the most pivotal doors (all puns intended!) doesn't slam…read on and find out.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I am still NOT responsible for who gets a crush on who…or what.

Chapter VIII

Ringing Phones and Slamming Doors

Everyone got up late next morning, which meant going to the 10.30 Mass instead of the nine. Stephen wasn't up even then, so Peter went over to the garage to investigate.

He met Frank coming down the stairs with an empty glass with some yellow scum on the bottom.

"What's that?" Peter demanded.

"The cure for what ails Stephen," Frank replied. "One raw egg, a dash of vitamin C, and crushed aspirins."

"Well, what ails him?"

"A hangover: the wine got to him. Don't start jumping to conclusions; sometimes the only way we find out our limitations is through our mistakes." Frank went into the house.

The crowd hadn't dispersed after the earlier Mass by the time they arrived. Cecie noticed some of the gossips eyeing her as they lingered in the dooryard.

"There she is now," Mildred hissed.

"There's who now?" asked Clara.

"Cecie Martin and her young…man."

"Did I tell you? I saw it with my own eyes. Allison Diocletian was dancing with…him last night," Winifred said.

"That's nothing, I saw her with…him later that evening. He was making brazen overtures to her," Samantha contributed.

"And here that girl comes now with that…that _thing_ ," Mildred said. "If Father Slope were pastor, he'd take care of them both."

"I bet she spent the night lying in his arms…its arms," Winifred said.

"Who, Allison?" Samantha asked.

"No, Cecie."

"And Peter lets this kind of…lechery go on under his very roof!" Clara cried.

Cecie scanned across the crowd and noticed the Diocletians leaving very quickly, Shay herding his wife along by the arm, the two boys trailing them, complaining. Allison glanced back.

Joe, at Cecie's side, looked back, his gaze meeting Allison's across the yard, even as he kept up with Cecie.

At Communion, Father Slope, the celebrant, gave the Host to the woman on Cecie's right, but he passed over Cecie and gave It to the man or her left. She looked up, trying to look him in the eye as he passed by again, but he took no notice of her. He looked coldly over her shoulder as he passed her. She knew why.

The reason for the priest's cold glance followed her back to their place in the back pew.

Cecie didn't want to confront Father Slope after Mass, so she went to the rectory; she found Meyer Blizitsky fixing the mail slot on the front door.

"Shalom, Meyer."

"Miss Cecilia, shalom!" he said, setting aside his tools and standing up. "And that young fellow on the gravel must be your young man?"

Cecie glanced over her shoulder at Joe. "Yes, though actually he's more like a golem."

"So? Doesn't it say in the Talmud that in case of necessity a golem may be counted into a minyan?" With an Ashkenazaic shrug, he added, "So what if he's one of _them_? Didn't Y'shua ha-Meshiach let a woman of that profession wash His feet with her tears?"

"That's just the problem. Father Slope wouldn't let me receive Communion because of Joe."

"He wouldn't?"

"No, so I was wondering if Father Kunstler was around?"

Meyer sighed. " _Oy vey iz dir_. He was called out of town after the early Mass; he won't be back until this afternoon. You'll have to come back then, please God."

"Thanks, Meyer."

She turned away and joined her companion on the path.

"Why then did your Father Slope refuse you…the Sacrament?"

"He has a narrow view of people like me who associate—even innocently—with things like you. He thinks I'm not worthy of the Blessed Sacrament because I count you as a friend."

"You say that your God enters you in this Sacrament?"

"Yes."

"And your God is a forgiving god?"

"He is."

"Why then cannot your Father Slope, who is the especial servant of your God emulate his Master's disposition and allow you the Sacrament?"

She turned to Joe and took his head in both her hands. She stroked the sides of his scalp, under which lay his logic processors. "Joe, you may be a very simple robot, but your logic is much more pure than ours."

He smiled puckishly. "Your objecting friends might agree that I possess powers of good logic, but they would argue that it is far from pure." He started to draw close and slipped his hands about her waist. Cecie let him go.

"None of that here, or there'll be even more tongue-wagging," she said, stepping back from under his touch.

Cecie helped Sarah repack her bridesmaid's dress in the tissue paper that lined the box from the dress shop. The younger girl seemed to have recovered from her fright of the previous night.

"Can you give a message to…him for me?" Sarah asked.

"I can if you'll tell me what it is."

"Tell him I'm sorry I scared him last night."

"I don't think that'll really be necessary; you didn't really scare him, though you startled him and some of his overrides got a bit disrupted."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Did I break him?"

"No, he's okay. His programming is designed to auto-restore in case of something like that; they built Mechas to be resilient."

"Then, can you tell him something else?"

"Shoot."

"Tell him…when I'm older, maybe I'll find him and I won't have to be pushy with him."

"Careful, he may be anticipating getting pushy with _you_."

"Not _that_ pushy."

"He knows what to do when someone says 'when'. He may not be good in a strict moral sense, but he's a good boy."

"To hear Uncle Peter say it, you'd think Joe was the devil himself."

"I won't deny Joe is no angel, but when you've learned how to handle him, he makes a very good friend. But I don't blame you for wanting to avoid him; if you've noticed, he's been avoiding you. Don't look sad. You'll find your dark knight: he won't come soon, but he'll come."

"Maybe I'll get lucky like Bernie: he'll come to me with a tender hand and a gentle voice, a mysterious young wight with dark hair and green eyes."

"I can't see it happening twice in the same family."

"Maybe Frank has a long-lost younger half brother who looks like him."

"I don't see that happening, either."

"Did I see happen what I thought I saw happen?" Peter asked at brunch.

"What?" Frank asked over his coffee-cup.

"I thought I saw Father Slope refuse Communion to Cecie." Peter looked at Cecie. "Was I seeing things?"

"No, he refused to give me Communion," Cecie said.

"Well, all I'm going to say us that I can't help agreeing with him."

"Now wait a minute," Ferde said. "You opened the door, we're not about to let you close it so quick. You gotta give us a good reason."

"All right, I'll give you one: how do we know what Cecie's been up to with that…that _thing_."

"If you have to talk about me, you could at least talk to _me_ ," Cecie said.

"In that case: what have done with that…that machine?"

"It's really none of your business. I haven't done anything more than that tango I danced with him."

"I've had narrow-minded priests refuse to give me Communion," Frank said. "I once reported on this voodoo ceremony in Nova New Orleans, and I'll admit that, out of rather stupid curiosity, I got a little caught up in it. Scared me half to death; I swore I shoulda had gray hairs showing afterwards. I ran to confession as soon as I could. But somehow the word that I'd gotten involved got back to St. Louis before I did. This one priest, the chaplain's assistant at the convent where my grandfather works, wouldn't let me receive the Sacrament, and even when I plead that I'd repented, he lit into me. But then the chaplain, my godfather, lit into _him_ after he heard about the incident. Father Desmond Bainbridge…he's quite a character; he used to be a Marine until he got wounded in the Mexican Uprising of 2135. He was too badly cut up for them to let him continue serving, so he entered the priesthood. He's a great priest and a great guy, a real man's man, y' know, kinda like the priest Karl Malden plays in _On the Waterfront_. Sister Superior, my godmother, calls him the 'grunt padre' behind his back."

"And I suppose she used to be a prostitute before she entered the convent," Peter said.

Frank grinned wickedly. "Howdja guess?"

"You're not the only one, Frank," Kip said. "When I was visiting my cousins in Florida, a priest refused to let me have Communion just because he'd heard I came from Rouge City."

"But aren't you putting yourself in a near occasion of sin though associating with this…Mecha?" Peter asked, turning back to Cecie.

"Like I've been saying these past two weeks: there's a lot more to Joe than just _that_. You've got him mixed up with female sex-Mechas: the males have to be a lot more sophisticated than most females, since most women who utilize them are looking for a lot more than just _that_."

"But that's just what you're saying."

"Bulverism," Kip grumbled.

"What?" Georgette said. "What kind of bad language is that?"

"I said 'Bulverism'. It's a name for a kind of logical fallacy."

"Well, what does it mean?" Peter demanded.

"It means refusing to believe someone's argument just because they happen to be a certain person or kind of person. Like refusing to accept Cecie's arguments defending Joe just because she knows him well. C.S. Lewis made up the term."

"I'm just concerned her arguments may be tainted by lack of objectivity," Peter countered.

"You can get too objective," Frank put in. "I knew a guy who was so objective about emotions that he claimed they were just bio-chemical reactions."

"Yick, what a way to live," Cecie groaned.

"Guess we had some really wild chemical reactions flying around last night," Ferde said, only half-serious.

Peter looked at Bernie and Frank. "That's something I'll have to talk to you two about." Bernie sat allergically away from Frank. If Joe had been in the room, Cecie wondered, what would she be doing instead?

About the same time, Joe sat on the foot of Irene's bed while she had her brunch.

"So what was all that racket upstairs last night?" she asked him.

"Bernadette refused to yield to her husband Franks caresses," he replied. "She resorted to such drastic measures as casting him out of her chamber."

"If her pinhead father hadn't taught her to be terrified of everything with a deep voice and the proper equipment, this wouldn't have happened," the venerable lady's eyes sparkled elfishly. "Do you know anything about Phila and Kip?"

Joe lowered his eyelids. "I heard her crying out with delight, a sound I doubt has had rein to resound beneath this roof."

"You're probably right there, boy."

When Irene had finished, Joe got up to remove her tray, but she stopped him.

"Wait, garcon, there's something I've been wanting to find out," she said.

"And that would be?"

"Do fellas like you kiss as well as everyone claims?"

He leaned one hand against the wall behind and above the headboard. "You know there is but one way in which you can truly discover the answer to that query."

She turned her face away coyly, a kittenish smile brightening her face. "Oh, should I?"

"Unless you would rather remain ignorant."

She reached for her napkin and blotted her lips more thoroughly. "Sure thing, but remember, I'm much too old for anything more than that."

"Fear not: I shall be gentle." He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, and gently took her delicately lined face in his hands. Leaning down, he touched her lips gently with his, as lightly as a butterfly landing. He drew back; she felt his breath fan her face. Then tenderly, but with increased ardor, he pressed his mouth to hers, parting her lips just far enough. He released her and stood up.

"My," she gasped, grinning.

"How long has it been since a man has kissed you thus?"

"Lat man I kissed like that was Harry, Kip's father, my late husband, just before he died. It was the last thing he did. And that man could kiss!"

"As well as I?"

"It's a very close tie. How old are you anyway?"

"'Old' does not apply to one forever young."

"I meant how long have you been around?"

"Four years, six months, three days, thirteen hours and four seconds."

"And you don't look a day less than twenty-five. I always had it for younger men. Kip's father was younger than me when we was hitched: I was almost forty, he was just twenty-five."

"Such a difference! But doubtlessly he brought you the delight you needed."

She blushed. "That he did. Don't take this too serious, boy, but you remind me of him sometimes. It's like he sent you to check on me for him and deliver a few messages."

"I doubt that a human soul that has passed on could make such use of something like me. But I must and will respect your wishes and images."

She reached up and touched his cheek, caressing the blemish there. "He had a scar there. That's strange. Oh, it's only wishful thinking. I suppose you were built to be versatile: all things to all people."

"I have my limits of programming, but I can oblige most customers."

"It may not be quite the right way, but you're doing one better than that Peter Connelly."

He took this with a bemused but proud smile.

Stephen limped into the house about three in the afternoon, his head still aching, his eyes slitted against the burning sunlight.

He found Cecie in the living room, jotting in the journal on her datascriber.

"How are you feeling?" she asked in a low voice, but the sound still buzzed in his clanging ears.

"Terrible." He collapsed in an armchair. "Does Peter know?"

"Yes, but we held back most of the truth."

"Where is he?"

"Over at Diocletians' house, with Georgette and the happy couples. Ferde and his girls went to the Berkshires, so it's just me and Irene and Joe."

"Thanks for helping me up the stairs like that last night."

"Hey, no problem. We all screw up."

"I didn't mean to get that drunk. I guess the excitement and then Terry turning me down just got to me."

"It's not too late to get to confession and four-thirty Mass. I'm going to the rectory anyway: Father Slope refused to give me Communion."

"Now why'd he do that?"

"Why do you think? Because one of my best friends happens to be a lover-Mecha."

"Where is he anyway?"

"He's with Irene: last I knew, she was settling down for a nap."

Stephen looked at the floor. He shuffled one foot and re-crossed his legs. He cleared his throat. "I don't know how to say this. Maybe it was just the alcohol in my head last night. But I looked up at him as he was laying me down on the bed, and I couldn't help thinking…he's a more sympathetic creature than Peter."

"Some people would argue that it's just his programming. But there's something to be said for a machine that shows a more sympathetic response toward a wounded soul than do many human beings of flesh and bone and blood. There was a computer AI back in the dark ages of the 1980s that acted sort of like a therapist. People in the AI lab used to pour out their hearts to it, typing in their deepest secrets and feelings and pain. Of course its responses were rather awkward, not like Joe's witty remarks and tender endearments; but it affected people the way Joe affects us—well, those of us that can accept him."

"He's human. He's more human than some humans…that wasn't quite right."

"No, in some ways you're right. He has a more complicated nature than most people think."

"He's a sweet guy."

"He is…when he wants or needs to be."

"I mean, if I were a girl, I'd really be…y' know, drawn to him."

She grinned. "There might be something cock-eyed in your system if you didn't."

"But that's just it…I'm drawn to him. I mean…I… I can't say it."

She leaned over the arm of the couch to him. "You can say it to me. I'll accept it for what it is."

Stephen looked up to the corners of the room, as if he feared there might be cameras or tape recorders there, or as if the wrath of God might strike from there. He looked at her. "Okay, all right…when he and Frank were laying me down on the bed, I looked up into Joe's face, and I saw no judgment there whatsoever. Frank looked the other way, like he was worried Peter might find out. But I looked up into Joe's eyes and I noticed them looking at me with the most gentle look, like 'You're in pain, you're sick, but I'm here for you.' And I just wanted to hang onto him for dear life at that point."

"A lot of women look at him the same way. I don't hold it against you."

"It's not that, it's not, you know…I just wished at that point I was a woman, so I could have cried myself to sleep in his arms and felt him holding me tenderly. This is horrible of me."

"No, it's honesty. And at the risk of sounding like a therapist, it's good for you to be honest about your emotions."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

"You're a lot like Joe yourself."

"After three years, I'd imagine some of his better qualities and quirks should have rubbed off on me."

"That's not bad, though Peter would argue otherwise." He got up. "I'd better go clean up and get ready for Mass."

"In the meantime, I'll go check on our December and May couple."

"Who?"

"Irene and Joe." She got up and went out, humming "September Song" under her breath:

'For it's a long, long while

From May to December,

And the days grow short

When you reach September…'

She found Irene sound asleep, her head pillowed innocently on Joe's chest as he lay beside her, his arm about her. He looked up at Cecie.

"She has just fallen asleep," he said in a low voice.

"I'm just going out for a while, with Stephen. Could you stay put and keep her company till I get back? Peter would kill me if he knew I'd left her here alone."

Joe looked down at Irene. "She would prefer it as well, should she awaken to find me beside her."

Cecie lucked out: Father Kunstler, having heard her plight willingly gave her the Sacrament.

"Slope's really gone ballistic," he told her afterward. "You've never done anything more with your young friend than that tango, true?"

"True."

"You're one of the most principled young people I ever met. All this talk about the interdict, that's just the neo-Jansenists blathering. Rome hasn't formally declared anything, but I've friends who have seen the draft of His Holiness's next encyclical: he's apparently written that making use of certain aspects of these creature's capabilities is nothing more than a form of masturbation."

"But you know Slope used to get all over people who stumbled in that regard. I remember when I was fifteen, going to confession to him, and having him do 'You did WHAT?' which made me feel so bad, I'd go home and end up doing the same thing again out of misery.

"But then luckily you came to the parish."

"I've figured it this way: it's one, worse thing for an older person to use something like your young friend, but for a young person who's curious about the flesh and is experimenting, for a lack of a more appropriate term, it's less of an offense."

"I came to the same conclusion: it's the difference between the business people and the tourists that come in and out of Rouge City, and the teenagers and the college kids who sneak in out of curiosity."

"I suppose most people's concern is that this kind of behavior carries no moral consequences."

"Oh, it does. You've been to Rouge City; I've seen people come out of the clubs and the parlor houses and the hotels absolutely in shock, with these looks of horrified delight in their eyes. One guy got shocked, literally, when the Sierra class model he'd just been with malfunctioned."

"I guess it carries its own set of consequences."

Cecie walked home by herself and let herself in. She found Joe waiting for her in the living room, sprawled gracefully in Peter's chair.

"Has all been made right with your soul?" he asked.

"It has, thank God. Father Kunstler was there."

"He has a sympathetic heart, unlike his colleague or many persons in your community."

"He has a better understanding of human nature."

"By human do you mean the nature of Orga or Mecha?"

"I'd have to say Orga, but he has more insights into your kind than most people do in this town."

"Certainly more than people like Peter Connelly."

"I'm afraid so. But I think we succeeded yesterday."

His brow folded slightly. "Did we?"

She knelt before him; he turned to her, leaning forward. "I think people in this town are gonna talk about yesterday for years to come: 'Remember when the Connelly girls got married and Cecie Martin brought that sex-Mecha along to the wedding?' That'll put the whole Rockwellian crowd on edge."

Joe turned this statement over in his processors for a moment. "By Rockwellian, do you refer to the rustic scenes and folk depicted by the painter Norman Rockwell?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"The image is apt." He laughed gently.

"A far cry from Rouge City, eh?"

"The contrast is inciting."

"Remind me if I don't mention this: not tonight but probably tomorrow night, there's a spot in the woods behind the house that I want to show you."

"Why not visit it now?"

"We can't leave Irene. And it's that kind of spot you have to see by moonlight."

"Ahh." A touch of insinuation in his tone, and he'd lowered his eyelids. He'd understood.

The family came back later that evening. After supper, Cecie and Sarah washed the dishes together.

"Enjoying your last nights here?" Cecie asked, scrubbing the bottom of a pot.

"Yeah, I just feel like I blew it last night…like I forced myself on Joe. I still think I should apologize to him."

"If it puts your mind at ease, try it; just don't be surprised if he avoids you; or worse still, if he walks away from you very quickly. He's been avoiding looking at you if you didn't notice."

Sarah looked at the pile of dishes on the draining board. "I guess it can wait. I gotta think of the right words."

"The right words alone might soothe his jangling conductors."

Sarah went to the dining room; she found Joe sponging the table top with slow, circular strokes, his eyes intent on his work.

"Excuse me, can I…may I speak to you?" she asked, keeping a respectful distance from him.

He straightened up and turned to her, regarding her with something like caution. "You may, so long as you do not attempt to approach me as you did last evening."

"I wanted to apologize to you about that. I'm sorry if I scared you or damaged you. I wasn't thinking."

A slight smile curved one corner of his mouth. "In which case, I accept you apology; would that circumstances could have stood differently so that you would not have had to trouble yourself about such gestures."

"Me too, I mean, I wish I were older, then I wouldn't have scared you…but then, maybe that wouldn't have been such a good idea. I'd just like to say, you've been the closest person to a dark knight that I've ever met."

He smiled with both corners of his mouth, his eyes sparkling. Whoever made his eyes deserved to be knighted for their ingenuity. "And to gauge from your favorite literature, this title confers the most honor. Perhaps someday you shall be able to accept me as your humble servant, your ladyship."

"Sure, I, uh, suppose. Thanks." She slunk back to the kitchen, her face going red.

Later that night, Frank went upstairs to find Bernie. She wasn't in her old room and she was nowhere else to be seen.

He tried the doorknob of the would-be bridal chamber; someone had locked it from inside. Pressing his ear to the door, he swore he could hear Bernie breathing behind it. He sighed and went away.

Peter had given him a big lecture after lunch about handling Bernie gently and sensibly, and remembering she was a Catholic girl and not a prostitute. Frank didn't let on to Peter of course, but he had frequented a couple Orga prostitutes before his colleague Hal "The Photographer" McKeever got him onto Mechas. The two girls he regularly saw had always welcomed him; they never let on, but he knew they enjoyed having him in their arms since he always returned the favor tenderly and gently. His motto in all things was "Want better service? Try being a better customer!" What he said was, "I only mean the best for Bernie."

"I wasn't exactly going in there hooting and beating on my chest like a gorilla," he'd said, grinning. Ferde, who stood by refereeing, had guffawed at this, but Peter looked disgusted.

Bernie had been quiet and aloof with him all day; he tried to dismiss it as simply the aftereffects of the long day before, but he knew this for what it was: an excuse.

He passed Phila and Kip's room on the way downstairs. A delighted sigh came from under the door, followed by the soft, sucking smack of a slow, languorous kiss.

He imagined Peter telling Georgette how good this was for their wayward son in law, that this would teach him not to value the pleasures of the flesh too highly. He'd sooner side with Joe, who would doubtlessly turn up his sculpted, patrician nose at this, with a disgusted flare of his delicate nostrils.

Frank sighed and went downstairs to the kitchen.

He poured himself a glass of milk and sat down at the table to drink it. He set it down on the tabletop, and leaned his elbows on the edge of the table, thinking.

He heard movement in the half-light. A low white noise, just audible, vibrated on the air. Someone drew up a chair and turned it around before sitting down on it.

"You seem pensive, Frank," said an urbane voice.

"I don't know what I did wrong," Frank said.

"Why, has something else happened as yet, or as they say not happened?"

He looked up into Joe's calm, swarthy face, so like his own. They'd made this thing well, given it British accent which lent it an air of distinction and elegance which ingratiated itself.

"You're right on that one, nothing still happened," he said.

"Unless it troubles you to speak of it, you may confide in me. I cannot judge you, nor may I laugh at your troubles."

"Sure, maybe you can spot me where I went wrong. You're an expert, after all."

Joe smiled. "No one has ever called me such before, but perhaps I am expert. Yet, it is your time to speak."

Frank described at some detail what had happened the night before.

"She refused you utterly? She would not even let you so much as touch her or loosen her garments?"

"No, much less get her between the sheets. You ever have that happen? Some client gets you into a hotel room and she suddenly gets all frigid on you?"

"Yes, it has happened. I have never fully understood why they do this. But I have found that some carry the scars of harmful lovers and cruel fathers, either on their flesh or on their spirit. Others remain a mystery they sought not to disclose."

"Why not?"

"Some fled my presence without explanation. Others surrendered themselves with but half their hearts."

"Well, she withheld everything, not just half."

"It is utterly unfortunate that she subjected you to this kind of treatment."

"Tell me about it. You ever have a customer slam a door in your face or lock you out?"

The Mecha turned over this for a moment. "I have never endured the latter, but I have had the former happen to me."

"Then you know where I'm coming from."

"In a manner of speaking, you may say that I do."

"Does it ever bother you?"

"It does not trouble my being in the way that it does yours, but it causes me to review my approach, trying to determine what was at fault."

"Okay, here's something I've been meaning to ask you it sounded too dumb."

Joe spread his hands, welcoming it. "You may ask."

"All right, have you ever had a female Mecha?"

"No, I have not," came the quick reply. He was smiling mischievously.

"Can I ask why?"

"You may know this: I have yet to find one who would reciprocate my attentions."

"You mean to say they ignore you? You own kind?"

"Alas yes." The smile vanished.

"Aw, that's bad…I guess. Nothing like getting blown off by your own species." The Mecha said nothing to this: he might not have had an appropriate response.

"Okay, now, Kip told me something interesting about Bernie; I was wondering if you could confirm it."

Joe cocked his head, listening. "That would be…?"

"Kip told me Bernie had a crush on you."

Joe lowered his eyelids and with an odd curl to his lips, he replied, "Indeed she did and, I might add, she still harbors much attraction for me, though she pretends that she does not." He flicked up his eyelids, looking at him, as if for a reaction.

 _Wonder if ol' Peter knows about this; wonder what he'd say…nah, maybe not,_ Frank thought. He leaned across the tabletop toward the Mecha. "Well, that explains a lot of things."

"Things such as…?"

"For one thing, it would explain why she fell flat on her face in love with me at first sight. I mean, if someone didn't know better looking at us, they'd think we were blood brothers, twins even.

"And all the past couple weeks, she kept getting as close to me as she could every time you and her and I were in the same airspace. It was like she wanted me to protect her from you."

"And she should know that I can do her no harm."

"She _should_ know, but she doesn't compute it in her logic processor because of the way Peter programmed her."

"You speak of her as if she were one of my kind."

"I'm only trying to speak your language. In her mind, you're as dangerous as a dagger—no, not a dagger: a stiletto, long and slim and beautiful. People like Cecie don't get cut when they handle you because they know how to respect you, but people like Bernie get themselves all cut up because they get scared."

"You use well this metaphor, but I am not so dangerous."

"True.

"But why do I have this funny feeling you're up to something regarding Bernie?"

Joe's quiet smile changed to a shy little smirk; his mouth pursed, the vermilion of his lips turning inward. "You know as well as I that a member of the oldest profession—Orga or Mecha—may speak of their relationship to a client."

"Okay, I'll put it another way: what do you want with my wife?"

"I seek only to complete that which she initiated."

"So she's been flirting with you?"

"In the past, yes, she has, but she has ceased this behavior."

"I have an idea, but we certainly won't be able to do anything with it tonight, probably not till tomorrow night—"

The phone in the kitchen rang. They looked at each other. Frank got up and answered it.

"Hello, Connelly residence."

The line clicked and hung up. Frank shrugged and hung it up.

"If this were my grandfather's cottage and that just happened, he'd be saying, 'Oh, musta been Joe the ghost calling again'."

Joe the Mecha took this with a proud little smirk. "You clearly mean another creature of an entirely different nature."

Next day, while the men from the rental company came to collect the tent and the tables, Phil and Kip set after breakfast with a picnic basket, intending to hike up to Indian Mountain.

"That isn't its real name," Cecie informed Joe as she made herself a hazelnut butter sandwich.

He sat cross-legged on the end of the draining board, watching her; Frank had loaned him a battered tweed hacking jacket and corduroys which lent him the air of young gentleman farmer, or the son of a wealthy country squire. He looked up at her face.

"What then is its real name?"

"It's this mouth-filling Algonquin Indian name, but the Native American tribe that lived in this valley told a really beautiful legend about it." She pressed the two slices of bread together lightly.

"Are you withholding from me the retelling of this legend?" he asked after a pause.

She eyed him askance, with a gently mocking curl of her lips. "Not till we get to the top," she said. His face fell, taking on that sad little boy look, his eyes widened slightly. "Nope, don't try any cute stuff and try weaseling it out of me."

Bernie finished making up the bed in the would-be bridal chamber about the same time. Stephen had gone into town to apply as a teacher's aide, while Ferde and his girls had gone for the day to Stockbridge and the Norman Rockwell museum there. She expected she'd be able to get some sewing done, but then she heard a knock on the doorframe. She looked up.

"It's only me, and I'm not trying to do anything to you," Frank said, standing in the doorway, his hands loose at his sides.

"What do you want?"

"Cecie an' Joe are going up to Indian Mountain, so Georgette wants us to go along and, y' know, chaperone them a little."

"I've got work to do."

"Doin' what?"

"I'm sewing a new winter skirt, and I was going to start knitting something."

"That can wait; we don't get many nice days like this at this time of year, so let's take the chance while we got it."

"I don't know."

"Aw, come on, Bernie."

"If Georgette wants us to keep an eye on Cecie and…him, I suppose we'd better go."

Bernie insisted chaperoning Cecie and Joe meant walking with them, but Frank interpreted it as walking about three hundred feet behind them, keeping them within eyeshot, but giving them a cushion of privacy.

"Can you still see them behind us?" Joe asked, as he scaled the narrow path, Cecie at his side. Their track angled up at about a fifty degree angle, which meant having to hold onto the scrub trees and bushes and rocks along the way while they climbed.

Cecie glanced back. She saw movement behind the bushes, but not so close that she knew for sure that Bernie and Frank were there.

"No, not as close as before." They pressed onward. The air thinned slowly as they got higher up the mountain. Cecie started breathing harder, but Joe—who required no respiration—showed no signs of fatigue or concern except some mild gingerliness over the rougher, rockier spots.

"How much farther is it to the top?" he asked.

"Just a few dozen yards, just beyond the trees," Cecie said, breathing hard.

They stepped clear of the scrub growth and saplings onto the flat tableland top of the mountain. The view extended for miles, three hundred sixty degrees around them. Joe turned his gaze as far as it would go before he had to turn his head, then his whole self to take in the whole panorama of hills and valleys and woodlands and fields and villages. He turned back to her.

"Must be the most land you've seen all at once," she said.

"It is beautiful," he said, his voice hushed. "But you have not yet told me of this legend you say is linked to this promontory."

"The Wachusett tribe called this mountain by a name that means 'mountain of the paired hawks'. It was said that if a couple climbed the mountain and they both reached the top, that they would be united forever in love."

He put his head on one side as he looked at her, his lips pressed in a humorless smile. "You know that this cannot come to pass. You may as well try to take the sun for a desk lamp."

She fingered the lapel of his jacket. "I know, but even if anything should happen to either of us, I want to remember you always. And if it's possible, I want our spirits always to be one."

His hand crept to her waist, hesitated, then settled on her. He started to tilt her face to his with his other hand, but he looked over her shoulder.

The bushes rustled. Frank and Bernie crept out, Frank spitting out a mouthful of leaves.

"I wonder if that legend would apply to us," he said, eyeing Bernie.

She backed away from him. "Is that why you agreed when Georgette sent us up here?"

"No, I didn't know anything about this legend-thingy," Frank said, innocent.

"Liar," Bernie muttered, storming off into the bushes on the other side of the plateau.

She backed out suddenly, as if she had stepped on a snake. Fearing she had, Cecie ran up to her side. She looked down. She saw nothing, but she heard a gentle murmur over the wind singing in the grass.

The picnic basket stood open on a rock, half-blocking from sight two forms couched in the bushes. Cecie made out the angle of Kip's pale shoulder and his copper colored hair; Phila's hand slid down over his back.

"It appears someone has decided to have dessert first," Joe said, with an oddly reverent tone.

"Do they ever quit?" Frank added, half-teasing.

Bernie turned away, looking up at the three who confronted her: her spouse, her friend and the Mecha. Cecie had her hand on Joe's shoulder.

"I'm surrounded," she muttered. "This is indecent."

"Personally, I think it's the most decent thing that could happen," Cecie said.

"You would," Bernie growled.

About the same time, the phone rang in the house. Georgette set aside the book she had been reading to answer it.

Just as she picked it up and said "Hello?" the line hung up.

Some minutes later, Cecie sat eating her sandwich on a rock at the opposite end of the clearing from the rock where the basket stood. Joe reclined on his side behind her, his chest just inches from the small of her back.

Bernie and Frank sat on the slope below them. Frank edged closer to Bernie; Cecie couldn't decipher the exact words he said, but she guessed from the softening of his spine and the way he got so close to his bride that he was trying to coax her to unwind a little.

"What Frank lacks in success, he compensates in persistence," Joe remarked.

Cecie wadded up the edible wrapper of her sandwich and popped the wad into her mouth. She chewed it thoughtfully for a minute before swallowing it.

"I just wish his persistence would pay off."

"Perhaps it would, were I permitted to undo the chains that bind her."

Cecie turned around on the rock, facing him. "I can't say 'typical male behavior' because you aren't a typical male."

"Indeed, I am better than the typical male."

"Better-looking, that's obvious," she said. "And you've got a kiss hotter than a cruiser left standing in the sun."

He sat up and edged closer to her so that their knees touched. "But you allow yourself nothing further."

"You just said something similar about Bernie."

He took this in silence. "The fact that you make note of this indicates something about yourself. I am sure of it."

"Sure of what?"

"You are jealous."

"I have every reason to be: you keep eying Bernie. Get it through your processors, Joe. _I'm_ the one who brought you here, I'm the one who paid your fee; I'm the one who really wants you."

He looked into her eyes, his chin tilted down. "In that case, why not cut yourself loose?"

An idea came to her. She'd brought him up to the mountain, why not to the nook in the woods tonight…?

"Not here. Tonight, after supper and the dishes are washed. Remember the spot I told you I'd show you? I think tonight's the night."

He leaned closer to her. "Night shall not come soon enough."

"Ow!" Frank yelled.

They both looked up. The bushes rustled. Even Phila stuck her head up from the bower.

Bernie darted down the rise. Frank lay sprawled on the sparse grass, but he jumped up and scuttled after his spouse through the bracken.

"What's going on?" Cecie demanded.

"Bernie, honey, where are you goin'?" Frank called out.

"Frank was just trying for the umpteenth time," Kip said, folding up the blanket, his shirttail sticking out.

"Man, not even the fresh air helps loosen her up," Cecie sighed. She looked daggers at Joe. "And no smart remarks."

"I had not said anything," he said, innocently.

That night, Frank and Bernie had the job of washing dishes. As he carried a stack of plates from the kitchen to the dining room, the top plate fell off and bounced around on the floor.

"Hey, I don't know who put what in my tea, but I thought I saw that plate bounce," he said.

"No, it bounced," Bernie said, looking over her shoulder. "It's polymer."

"Golly, the caterer should stock these, but then people's parties wouldn't be so successful," he said. He dropped another and watched it bounce around the floor.

Cecie, minus her glasses, walked in; the plate nearly ricocheted off her boot tops; she jumped over the errant dish and let it roll behind her.

"Do either of you know if we have any cooking sherry left?" she asked

"There's some in the cabinet," Bernie said. "Why?"

"I've got my reasons," Cecie said. She took it down, then got herself a glass. She poured out enough to cover the bottom of the glass.

"Wait, I thought you said you don't drink," Frank said. "What's with mooching the cooking sherry?"

"I'll tell you in private," Cecie said. She eyed the glass. "Over the teeth and over the gums/Look out, stomach, here it comes." She tossed it back with a raffish jerk of her head and arm.

She went out to the dining room, Frank following at her heels. "What's going on?" he asked.

"It's a round of Keep Away."

"Keep Away?"

"Yeah, Keep Joe Away from Bernie."

"Oh, I see. I was gonna ask you if I could borrow him."

"What for?"

"I thought maybe if I made it look like I was saving her from him, that she might, uh, give in to me."

"Let me get his pursuit centers off her first."

"Where is he now?"

"Out in the garden. Here I go. Wish me luck and keep at it with Bernie."

"Will do. If there's one thing he and I have in common, besides our sultry good looks, it's _persistence_."

She went out into the garden. She crossed herself. _God forgive me for what I may have to do to keep Joe away from Bernie._ She felt weirdly like a Christian virgin being dragged by Roman soldiers to a house of prostitution. She'd always wondered what exactly this particular tactic had entailed: had the maiden been placed there as a new addition to the procurer's stable of fillies? Or had some male hetaera been provided to sway her vow of chastity? Or maybe she was like the cow that is chained to the tree in India to entice a man-eating tiger into the hunters' gun sights. Not that Joe was a tiger; she'd heard tell of his capabilities, available upon request. Part of her mind couldn't help wondering if these would suddenly manifest when he discovered what she intended. No, he wouldn't, not with her.

She drew in a long breath smelling of pine and yew and the garden flowers and the night air. She walked as naturally as she could down the fairy-let yew tunnel.

She found Joe where she'd sent him to wait for her, in the walled garden, engaged in the crowing gem of his talents: dancing, circling the fountain, slinking and turning, pausing and poising in an unaccompanied tango, hands in his trouser pockets, the skirts of his hacking jacket pushed back. For some reason, Gade's "Jalousie" played in her head; perhaps the music played through his processors and by some weird subliminal he had channeled it to her.

But most likely, this melody came to mind because of his gentle accusations.

He'd grown aware of her; he pulled himself up in a turn, and spun out slowly, his eye spotted on her the whole time.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know; you kept busy while I was away."

He walked up to her. "A great thinker once said, 'To dance is to live'."

"If that's so, then you're more alive than some folks." She looked to the northwest. "The moon is rising. Let's be off."

He proffered her his hand. "Lead then the way, O mistress of the roads and paths of Westhillston."

She took his hand and led him into the trees beyond the garden, along one of the trails she and Stephen had worn down and cleared over the years.

"I used to walk this trail all the time," she said. "Every day that I could, I'd come out here, just to think and to write and to be alone, get away from Peter nagging me."

"Nature manifests more patience than mankind, particularly omen of Peter Connelly's ilk."

They ducked under low-hanging branches. The underbrush along the trail brushed against them, but they kept clear of the worst snags.

Silvery light from the rising moon coated the branches and spangled the leaves of the trees about them, turning the pines to metallic lace. The trail sloped up a slight rise that gave onto a vast clearing. The remains of a rusted iron fence surrounded an area in the center of the bald spot. Gray stone slabs poked upright above the lank, long grass, turned to sheening gray wires in the moonlight.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"You've clearly never been to New England before. "It's an old burying ground. A lot of really old houses have them, I mean _old_ houses, from back in the seventeen, eighteen hundreds. People used to bury their deceased family members on their own land. Sometimes whole families would be buried on their ancestral lands. Stephen and I found this, we cleared it up together. I used to go nuts at Halloween and bring some of the kids from school up here. We'd tell ghost stories and scare the yell out of each other. But most of the time, it was just a place I could come and think and write."

"Among the resting places of the Orga of long past?" he asked.

She looked at his face, gone pale and gleaming in the blue-white light, his expression calmly quizzical. "Don't tell me you're scared," she insinuated. "It's probably the safest place to be; no one will disturb us."

"I am not."

"You are, I can feel you shivering in your shoes."

"I am not," he insisted, his tone rising ever so slightly.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes."

She let go his hand. "What's that moving over there?" She pointed away from her. As he turned to follow her gesture, she stepped away and ducked into the shadow behind a large gravestone.

"Cecie?" he called. She didn't answer. She heard him move about, rustling the dying grass. "Where have you gone?" She detected amused concern in his voice, but not fear. "Where have you couched yourself?" His tall shadow passed near where she lay. She reached up behind him and grabbed him about the waist, trying to pull him down. He let out a yelp and leaped free. She fell over on the grass, cackling with laughter. He stood staring down at her, slightly wide-eyed, mouth slack. As he realized his folly, he resumed his usual sultry cockiness.

"You were teasing me," he said, holding his head slightly higher. "If I must be dallied with, let it be the manner of dalliance only I know best how to respond to."

"Aw, yer not fun if I can't scare you a little," she groused. She looked up toward the house. She could see the lights in the windows even through the trees. A light shone in the window she knew was Frank and Bernie's bridal chamber. She couldn't tell if anyone was in there yet.

Determined to fulfill his marriage debt, Frank got into the bridal chamber first. He washed and shaved for a second time that day. He'd gotten Bernie in a good mood joking around while they did the dishes, so perhaps she would give in tonight. Thinking she might approach him more readily if he appeared less eager, he hadn't changed into his dressing gown but had left on the same hanging about stuff he had worn during the day. She wasn't going to lock him out tonight. He sat with his legs slung over the arm of the armchair that stood in one corner, reading a few verses of "The Romaunt of the Rose", in a small volume he had borrowed from Cecie.

"Woman should gather roses ere

Time's ceaseless foot o'ertake her,

For if too long she make delay

Her chance of love may pass away."

The thought had beckoned him enticingly: _if she won't, what about someone else?_

What about Cecie? Granted, she was more interested in the green-eyed artificial beauty who looked like him, but she seemed friendly enough.

The thought of requesting an annulment insinuated itself into his head, but he put it aside. Wait till Bernie came around. If she didn't give in tonight he'd use his secret weapon tomorrow night…

Joe knelt beside Cecie in the grass as she sat with her back against the largest headstone, the lichen-covered monument of "Master Joseph Wright, blacksmith, late of West Hillston." Neither of them had spoken for some minutes; she guessed her comment had slid off him like a drop of water off his silicon dermis.

"I can see now why you chose to come out here often. No one would disturb you here among the stones. You could come out here to exchange confidences with a trusted companion and not be heard." A dramatic pause. "Or you could come out here to hold tryst with an admirer."

His eyes sought out hers in the dark and the moonlight, but she gracefully eluded his gaze, thwarting him.

"You avoid my eyes; why do you do this? Because I have gazed on Bernadette more than you would rather that I did?"

"You're close."

"Then you admit it: you are jealous. You are consumed with jealousy. But it is not such a grievance on your part: among your kind, if you are not inflamed with jealousy you cannot, by contrast, truly love. But I am here beside you now. Let not that green-eyed monster overtake you." As he spoke, he crept through the grass till he sat alongside her, facing her, his knees against hers. His face hovered just a hands length from her face. "Your green-eyed beauty shall drive it from you."

"It's been foolish of me. I ought to know better instead of acting like a possessive teenager."

He took a fold of her sleeve in his fingertips and rubbed it slowly. "But would it not be the wiser course of action to let yourself know the full course of love?"

Her hand crept to his, covering his wrist in the dark. "I guess I haven't been fully immune to Peter's nonsense."

"Lucky for you that you followed the road to Rouge City, where you found the cure for what ails you…where you found…me."

His free hand, resting beside him in the grass, crept up around her waist as he drew closer to her. The hand on her wrist slid up to her shoulder. She yielded, pulling him closer as he drew her into his embrace.

That musky, almost animal scent that exuded from his skin caressed her nostrils, insinuated itself into the recesses of her breathing passages, finding the receptors there. That aroma, her decision, and the sherry in her veins undercut any overrides in her own system.

She darted a peek out of the corner of her eye over his shoulder to the light in the window. It still shone, but she lost it. His face, his brilliant eyes gleaming in the moonlight, blocked her line of vision.

And then he moved in on her; he kissed her gently, almost chastely at first, just parting her lips. She dropped her jaw, letting him penetrate, working in deeper. Under her lashes, she darted a glance around his head. The light still shone.

Frank had set aside the book. He folded his arms behind his head and nestled it against the wing of the chair back. He relaxed his eyelids, not enough to fall asleep, but enough that he settled down, utterly at ease.

The door creaked open. Bernie came in and went to the chest of drawers that stood in the far corner. She opened a drawer and took out a flannel nightgown. She sat on the bed to take off her shoes, then slipped her nightie over her head and undressed underneath it. He'd have to cure her of that: he'd be the one undoing her buttons.

She slid her head through the neck of the nightgown and buttoned it up. She turned. Their eyes met. She stiffened and backed away like a deer recoiling from a serpent.

"You were watching me."

"I only saw you changing under your nightgown."

"You were still watching me undress. What did you see?"

"What could I possibly see when you're hiding under so and so number of yards of flock flannel. I couldn't see anything I really have a right to see."

"You're not going to see it if you can help it."

Joe's shoulder leaned into Cecie's; she relaxed under him, which he clearly took as a sign he could move on. He settled his weight against her, pushing her gently onto the trampled grass. She slipped her hands up the back of his neck, into his dense hair, running her fingertips through the soft fibers she felt there.

He retracted his mouth from hers, but he did not retract the rest of himself from her. "Suddenly your boundaries have expanded."

"Anything to reassure me that your mine," she said, slightly smothered. He smiled, clearly pleased, his eyelids lowered slightly.

"Already the cure takes effect," he said. He inclined his face to hers, running his lips over her cheek, leaving a hot trail of tiny kisses, almost nibbling her skin, working around the side of her face to her ear. He caught the lobe between his teeth, nipping it ever so gently. She gasped, catching her breath more than making a sound.

The increasing throb in her breast she realized came from within him as well as within her, matching her heartbeat, the race of her pulse.

"Not from me the cold, calm kiss

Of a virgin's bloodless love," he murmured, caressing the side of her neck and kissing it.

"Not from me the saint's white bliss

Nor the heart of a spotless dove." He reached the pit of her throat, at the open collar of her blouse, and ran the tip of his tongue over it.

"But I give the love that so freely gives

And laughs at the whole world's blame." He nosed aside her collar and ran his lips along her collar bones he slid his hands from under her and started to unfasten her second button.

She took his wrists in hers and stopped him. "Uh-unh-uh, don't do that. I'm not undoing your buttons, so don't go for mine."

"So you still set a boundary? No matter. You have let me give you more than Bernadette has."

"That's the whole point."

He looked up at her without raising his head from her bosom. "What do you mean by this?"

She took his face in her hands, turning it up to hers. "I mean what I mean. You aren't supposed to have her"—she kissed his cheek—"Bernie is Frank's one and only now"—another kiss on the other cheek, over the blemish that made his face so human—"He is hers"—she kissed the bridge of his nose; so straight, hers had a notch in it from twenty-two years of wearing glasses—"And please God, by now"—she kissed his forehead—"He's up there in bed with her"—she kissed him between the eyes—"Right now"—she kissed his left eyelid; no moisture on his long lashes—"Going where you aren't supposed to go"—she kissed his right eyelid—"You were the channel for God's plan"—she kissed the dimple in his chin—"Now you have no further place in that part of the drama"—she kissed him between the base of his nose and his upper lip—"Now…now it's you and I." It was her turn to kiss him on the mouth, levering his jaws open with her tongue, going in deep, hard.

He slipped his thumb under her lip to break the seal. "Such vehemence, I have never seen this before in you."

"I mean it, dammit." She kissed him again, lightly.

"And yet you have accepted only my touch."

"You said it yourself, it's not always about sex." His body covered her completely, her thighs open slightly under his groin so that she couldn't help feeling him against her. Just this clothed contact alone sent hot tendrils of pleasure up her spine to her brain, inflaming it. _Yield!_ Her body cried. _No, not to him,_ her reason replied, calmly.

"Your body tells you otherwise," he said, flaring his nostrils.

"I know it is. I have my principles; you have to respect them."

"I know that I must," he replied. Was that resignation in his voice?

"Then why did you marry me?" Frank asked.

She looked him up and down. What _was_ that in his eye? Confusion? Dismay? Frustration?

"I thought I knew why," she started out of the room.

He got up. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to my old room."

He tried to stop her, but she got to the door first. It shut in his face. No sense in chasing her.

He thrust his hands through his hair and tousled it out of order. He contemplated just kicking off his shoes and plonking down on the bed. No, this bed was gonna have a man between its sheets, even if the woman refused to join him there.

He peeled his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, and shucked his pants. Heck, might as well go all the way. He took off his shorts, uncovering the burn mark. He reached for the light and put it out.

Cecie relaxed beneath Joe, all vehemence spent. She had been lying here at least half an hour, but she felt exhausted. She nestled her head into the angle of his neck. She watched the window.

The light went out.

She couldn't get up too quickly; let him think she'd gone to sleep.

He turned over on his side, still holding her. She felt him gazing upon her, but she wouldn't open her eyes until the right amount of time had passed.

The evening dew felt damp on the back of her blouse. A cold breeze arose. If she stayed any longer, Peter would get suspicious when she came in. At least she wore black, which would hide any grass stains.

She counted to a hundred and fifty, two hundred, waiting to give Frank and Bernie enough time. Bernie must be climaxing by now, crying out in Frank's arms with joy and ecstasy.

She shifted slowly, arching her back and tensing her limbs. She sat up slowly; Joe rose with her.

"Will this suffice?" he asked.

"Yes, like I say about you: you're too good at what you do."

"I take that as the highest of compliments," he said, getting to his feet and helping her up.

At that moment, the phone rang in the house. Peter, locking the windows and the doors, went to answer it.

"Connelly residence."

A woman's sigh, then the line broke and hung up.

He hung up the phone. He heard the back door open. Cecie's and Joe's voices, talking low in the night's stillness. He heard a soft sound that might have been a kiss. He went to the living room doorway and looked in, careful not to be seen. They had clearly just separated from a stolen kiss.

"May I see you to your room?" the Mecha asked.

"No, not tonight," she replied, turning away from it.

The robot put its hand under her chin and fondled her jaw. "Will you not leave me something with which to think of you?"

"All right, one last kiss good night, pesky," she said, turning back to it.

She put her hands behind its neck and kissed it on the mouth, just a brief, gentle peck, but it was too long for Peter. She let the thing go and turned away heading for the stairs.

The thing followed her to the foot of the stairs. At least it didn't follow her up; he would have considered it necessary to intervene at that point.

It turned around and faced him; it looked at him oddly.

"It is not in good form to spy upon a lady and her companion," it said, with an almost condescending tone.

"You shouldn't be getting so ardent with her anyway."

It smiled oddly. "Ardor is one of my chief talents." With that, it turned away and swaggered into the living room.

Peter went to the master bedroom at the back of the house; there was no reasoning with that thing.

Cecie entered her room to find Bernie lying on her bed.

"Uh, what are you doing there?" she asked.

"Frank's in the other room and he won't leave," Bernie said, sitting up.

"But if you don't yield to frank, an incubus might come and steal Frank away," Sarah said. "Or you, Bernie."

"I don't know about an incubus, but you may be putting Frank at risk for wanting an annulment, or for looking elsewhere," Cecie said.

Sarah's eyes widened: Bernie kept her look of annoyed disgust.

"You can't let that happen," Sarah pleaded. "His…his soul will be lost."

"Why did you marry Frank if you aren't going to let him love you?" Cecie asked.

"I don't know any more," Bernie said.

"Well, you'd better figure it out soon, or else don't be surprised if Frank decides to come along with Phila and Kip and Joe and I when Friday comes and we're going back to You Know Where…"

Sarah fell back on her cot.

Cecie shucked her blouse and her skirt, then turning to face the wall, she took off her bra and pulled on her jersey and her leggings. She switched out the light and crawled in beside Bernie.

 _All that for nothing_ , she thought. Her lips still burned from Joe's last scorching kiss.

"Point me toward the coffeepot," Cecie said, groping through the kitchen next morning.

"What happened?" Georgette asked.

"Bernie and I ended up sharing my bed, and then for the rest of the night, it was like that ancient Bill Cosby routine about the two kids, brothers, in the small bed. 'Don't touch my body', 'I wasn't touching your body', 'Get over on your side of the bed', 'I'm not on your side of the bed', 'Give me back the covers', 'I'm only taking back my share of the covers'."

Georgette looked at Bernie, who kept her attention fixed on her cornflakes.

Frank came in looking much more rested than Bernie or Cecie. Seeing them, he said, "I guess I'd better be a gentleman and let the ladies have the coffee."

"Yeah, tonight, if Bernie wants to borrow my room, I'm sleeping on the couch," Cecie said, sipping her coffee—black.

Georgette eyed Joe, who only had eyes for Cecie. "Would that be wise?"

Cecie looked at Joe with out looking at his face. "Yeah, he knows the meaning of the word 'no'."

While Cecie did her laundry, Frank caught up with Joe on the back deck. The weather had turned brisk, with a crisp autumnal breeze coming down from the mountains.

"What's your hourly rate, Joe?" Frank said.

"I thought you had designs only for Bernadette," the Mecha replied. "For that matter, you would first need to give me the password."

"Well, I don't know it even if I thought I needed it. No, I meant how much would a woman have to shell out to you?"

"One hundred and fifty Newbucks for an hour, three hundred for special services. But I can negotiate."

Frank took three fifty Newbucks out of his wallet and put them into the pocket of Joe's frock coat. "I want you to meet me on the back stairs about 22.00 tonight. I have an idea for getting Bernie to give in to me, but I'll need your help. Not a word of this to anyone, got it?"

"I understand."

"Good."

As Frank went back in, he heard the phone ringing. He picked it up in the front hallway.

"Hello, Connelly residence."

"Joe…is that you?" a woman's voice asked.

"No, this is his Orga twin Frank, but I can put him on for you."

"No, that won't be necessary." The line cut out.

"Okay, whatever," Frank said, hanging up.

About the same time, Cecie helped Sarah pack her bags.

"I'm gonna miss sharing a room with you. It's been fun, like sharing a room with the big sister I always wished I'd had," Sarah said, folding a blouse and putting it into her suitcase.

"Only after a while, I'd probably be the big sister you wished you didn't have, like after I've gotten into one of my weird moods when I'm blaring Enigma or Ministry."

"I wouldn't mind, at least I hope I wouldn't. I mean, besides that, you've got a lot more sense than Phila or Bernie."

"Even I have my faults."

"But you don't beat yourself up for having them."

"I try not to."

"I mean, everyone beats up on you for living _there_ , but you're decent. You're more decent than a lot of people who live in Westhillston."

"I'm one of the normal ones; but there's a lot of crazies there as well. I'm sure your mother gave you The Talk about Rouge City."

"Yeah, just after my birthday. I don't think I'd go there—except to visit you, when I'm older."

"We'll keep that between the two of us."

"Maybe…by then I'll be old enough for a date with…him."

"If he's still around. Average street time for most models is five years, or so I'm told."

"Or better still, maybe I'll luck out and find a real guy just as gracious and handsome."

"I hope you do. In the meantime, I started writing your medieval-knight-in-the-modern-age story. I'm dedicating it to you."

The phone rang again during supper; Phila answered it.

"Was it the ghost again?" Kip asked.

"I'd like to know who this person is," she said.

"I'm going to call the phone company and see if they can trace these calls," Peter said.

"It's probably a wrong number," Ferde said. "Someone copied down a phone number wrong an' they keep getting us instead."

At five minutes to 22.00, Frank slicked back his hair with water in the downstairs washroom and studied his face in the mirror for a few seconds. In an effort to keep Bernie from objecting, he hadn't changed into his usual night gear, but had kept on the gray button down shirt and black pants he had worn all day.

He flipped out the light and headed out into the hallway. He met Joe at the foot of the back stairs.

"Just the man—er, Mecha I wanted to see," Frank said in a low voice.

"Did your nerves detain you for a minute?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, 'fraid so." Frank drew in a long breath. "Okay. What I want you to do is go into the room I'm supposed to be sharing with Bernie and wait for her to come in. Don't do anything to her that's really my territory, nothing below the shoulder, y'know? Just get a little more than friendly with her. Then I'll come in and send you on your way."

"In that case, you would act as if I were an interfering rival made with desire for her, and you then, like a true gentleman, would come to her rescue."

"Exactly. If anything goes wrong, if she attacks you—and I mean if she starts beating you with something, you come looking for me. I'll be on the back stairs."

The Mecha smiled obligingly "I can assist in your designs."

"Just remember, don't do anything to her that requires undoing buttons—hers or yours. Or I will find your off button."

"I shall remember this."

"Go to it," Frank said, clapping Joe on the shoulder as he went up the stairs.

Bernie passed by the top of the stairs a minute later. Frank stood perfectly still in the shadows, watching her.

Bernie listened at the door to room for a minute, listening, straining her ears to hear anything that sounded like Frank. Hearing nothing, she opened the door and stepped through.

The phone rang downstairs. Frank went down to answer it.

"Hey, if you're the same person who's been calling—"

 _Click!_

"Whatever," he shrugged and scurried back to the stairs.

"Bernadette?" something tall and slender got up from the bed: dark hair, green eyes…

Too shiny.

She started to back toward the door, but Joe stepped past he and shut the door. He backed her against the door, boxing her in by bracing his arms on either side of her.

"You cannot make up your mind, is that why you have hesitated with Frank? Which of us do you desire more: he or I?"

"Get out," she growled. "Go away!"

He crooked his elbows so that he leaned his body against hers, pinning her gently to the door.

"You have only just come in to me. Perhaps I can ease your decision."

"I don't need help! I'm Frank's wife."

He smiled condescendingly on her. "You are but his bride. You have not yet let him make you his. But if you but decide, you may yet have the lover you have but dallied with."

"I don't need a lover, and I certainly don't need you!"

He brought his face closer still to hers, till his forehead touched hers. "You wanted me on the bridge, I felt it in you."

"I was overexcited and tired; you only made it worse."

"I disagree." He lowered his face and grazed his cheek against hers as he went for her ear. "I could make all right with your world." His lips grazed her ear.

She slid her hand to the latch behind her. He started to nibble her earlobe. She lifted the handle and pulled the door so sharply that she shouldered Joe out of the way. He fell over backward on the floor, but she didn't stop to look back.

She knew this thing couldn't follow her into the bathroom, so she fled there.

She found the door slightly ajar. She flung it open and ran inside, full tilt into Ferde, who was brushing his teeth.

"Oh no!" she cried and ran out.

"Ugghh!" Ferde gasped, choking on his toothpaste.

Bernie ran blind, looking for the door to her old room. Finding a latch, she lifted it and ran inside.

"Hey!" Kip cried, within.

She backed out just as quickly. Kip and Phila definitely needed their privacy just now. Bernie slammed the door shut. "Wrong door!"

At this point, Sarah came out of Cecie's room, heading for the bathroom. Bernie nearly ran up one side of her and down the other, heading for Cecie's door.

"What's the matter?" Sarah cried.

"He's after me! He's after me!" Bernie screamed.

"Who is?" Sarah asked. She turned around in time to nearly walk into Joe the robot, who was heading for the back stairs, looking a little like the cat that ate the canary. He stepped around her, but as she tried to step past him, they somehow stepped into each other's path again.

"You know I may not dance with you," he said, with an odd, amused lilt. She let him pass her.

Bernie banged on Cecie's door with the flat of her hand, rattling the latch with the other. "Cecie!" _Bambambam!_ "Let me in! Let me in! He's after me!"

Cecie opened the door a crack. "Who's after you?"

"Joe is!"

"Listen, I am not going to go through another night of sharing the bed."

By this time, Sarah reached the bathroom, where she found her father with his head out the window, trying to Heimlich himself.

"Uh oh. MOOOOOM!" she shouted.

Hearing the commotion above, Frank ran up the back stairs. He didn't see Joe coming down until it was too late. _Bang-thunk!_ He bowled him over.

Bernie ran down the back stairs just as Frank started to get up and help Joe up of the steps. She didn't see them in her haste and— _whump!_ —fell right into Joe's lap ("Hello…what brings you—"). The force pulled Frank on top of Bernie.

"Ow!" she cried.

"Oof!" Frank grunted

"OUCH!"

Peter, locking the doors and windows downstairs, heard the pounding feet in the hallway overhead and the clatter and shouts on the back stairs.

"What's all that?" He ran to the back hallway.

Joe the Mecha passed by him in the hallway, dusting the sleeves of its jacket and shaking out the skirts, like a black rooster fluffing out his tail feathers. It tried to step past him heading for the living room.

"All right, what have you and Cecie been up to now?" Peter demanded, gripping it by the arm.

It pulled itself free. "I have not been engaged in anything with her," it replied. These things couldn't but it could be withholding information. Peter ran for the back stairs.

Bernie, in tears, ran past him too quickly for him to delay her. She headed for his and Georgette's room.

"Bern, where are you going?" Frank called, coming down the stairs.

" ** _WHAT IS GOING ON?_**" Peter roared.

Ferde coughed and retched noisily in the bathroom: "Gugh!"

"Can you breathe now?" Alice asked. "Say something."

"Sumwun—tell me—wuzza matta' wif Bern."

"Cecie, what do you know about this?" Peter asked Cecie.

"All I know is Bernie came running to my room, saying Joe was after her. Next thing I know, Frank falls on Joe on the stairs, then Bernie falls on Joe and Frank falls on Bernie," she said.

Phila and Kip, both in their bathrobes, came out onto the head of the stairs.

"Bernie had come into our room, but she ducked right out," Kip said.

"She seemed really upset about something," Phila said.

Peter turned to Frank. "What are you doing to her now?"

"All right, I guess I'd better come clean: I asked Joe to give me a hand trying to get Bernie to give in to me. I asked him top pest her a little, then I was going to step in and make it look like I was saving her from him, so to speak. It blew up in my face," Frank admitted.

As he spoke, the phone started ringing again.

"Will someone do something with that damned phone?" Peter cried. Realizing his misstep, he murmured a quick prayer.

Something thumped in the floor below.

"Now what's that?" Ferde asked.

"Probably my mother, I'll go check," Kip said, heading downstairs. The phone had stopped ringing.

"Well, now that we've straightened this out, I suggest we end this performance of _Much Ado About Nothing_ and go back to our respective beds," Cecie said.

"Frank, can I speak to you…in private?" Peter asked.

Frank drew himself to his full height, slightly taller than Peter, and faced his father in law. "No, if you have anything to say to me, you can say it here, in front of everyone."

Ferde leaned over the banister, his color vastly improved. "Peter, if you're gonna clapper-claw Frank one more time, I swear I'm gonna bust yer gob, so help me!"

Peter threw up his hands. "I've lost my grip on authority in my own house."

"Is that authority or authoritarianism?" Cecie asked in an undertone as he retreated.

"The things I do just to try getting laid with my own wife," Frank grumbled, coming up the stairs.

"The best laid plans of men and Mechas go all awry," Cecie added.

"By the way: where is Joe?" Phila asked.

"Last I knew, he went downstairs," Frank said.

"I'll go check," Cecie offered.

As Cecie ran down the back stairs into the front hallway, she heard the front door open. She looked toward it.

A lean, graceful form moved against the moonlight framed in the doorway for an instant, before the door closed. She pelted after it, but she tripped on the hall rug and measured her length.

She jumped up and ran like hell was on her heels.

She flung open the door and ran out into the frosty night, out onto the front stoop.

"Joe!" she shouted. He'd already reached the foot of the driveway and turned onto the street. Cecie ran down the steps, but his long strides were already carrying him further away. She tripped on one of the lights bordering the walkway. By the time she got up, he'd vanished around a bend in the road.

"Joe!" she yelled, even louder. She ran down the lawn, onto the street and ran after him. He'd gotten too far ahead of her for her to catch up, and she'd had her wind knocked out too many times. He paced from one pool of light under the street lamp to the next. The mist rising from the river to the east swirled about him as he lifted on his toes and spun, the night wind catching under his coattails and flaring the gleaming folds.

"Joe! Hey, Joe! Where are you going?"

The sound of Allison Diocletian's nervous-delighted giggle bubbled to the surface of her memory.

"Joe! Get back here! Get back here now! JOE!"

He heeded her not, if he heard her at all. He leapt into the air, kicking up his heels in joyful abandon.

"Fine, be that way, you silicon prick!" she roared and stormed back to the house.

Once inside, she couldn't stop the tears starting in her eyes. She wiped them away with the heels of her hands and pushed back her short hair.

She decided to wait up for him in the living room.

As he made his way to the rendezvous, Joe replayed the phone conversation in his memory.

"Hello…Connelly residence."

"Joe, is…that you?"

"At your service, Allison."

"Oh, thank God…Your voice is like ice on a burn. Are you…busy?"

"I am not presently engaged, but I could be busy…with you…if you so desire."

"I do, I mean…Shay and I had a dust-up, and now he's decided to sleep in the basement."

"And so, where then have you sought refuge?"

"I'm on the screen porch behind our house. We're at…"

"Say not a word more, my lady. I shall be at your side before you can sigh again for love."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Cecie pointed out your residence as we passed it by on one of our walks."

"Okay. Thanks…thank you."

"It is my pleasure."

Mustn't keep a lady waiting…

Afterword:

A nice comic-dramatic build up to a cliffhanger…I may soon be starting a job at Wal-Mart (Keep me in your prayers if you're the praying type!), so I'll be pushing myself trying to get the rest of this out, plus plotting the long-neglected "Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth" and writing that, plus a few other projects, so keep watching!

Literary Easter Eggs:

The golem in the Talmud—I'm not sure about this passage as I've never actually read it, but a golem is, in Jewish legend, a kind of natural android made of river clay which is animated either by placing a copy of the Sh'ma, the basic Jewish prayer, into the mouth of the golem or by carving the Hebrew word for truth, _emeth_ , into its forehead.

 _Oy vey iz dir_ —Yiddish: "Oh woe is you!"

Bulverism—this is a real word that C.S. Lewis invented, though I've forgotten where he first used it

Norman Rockwell Museum—A real and very beautiful museum in Stockbridge, MA, which I've been very fortunate to visit on a couple occasions. Steven Spielberg helped finance its construction, since Rockwell is one of his chief sources of inspiration.

Edible food wraps—I've heard talk that someone invented this and was testing it out.

"Over the teeth and over the gums…"—Swiped this wholesale from one of classic radio comedian Red Skelton's hysterical drunk routines.

The graveyard scene—I got the idea for this whole scene from the photograph on page 82 of the Hallmark Greetings gift book _Kisses_ , which features a photo circa 1950 of a young farming couple cuddling on the grass in a English graveyard at night. But there's something a little too well groomed about the young swain, and he bears an eerie resemblance to Jude Law (I'm not making this up!)…and there's something a little plasticky about his whole look, just from the way the flash lights him up.

"Not from me the cold calm kiss…"—This is a modified version of the second stanza of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poem "I Love You."

The door-slammer—My chief source of inspiration for this rowdy scene is James Thurber's classic story "The Night the Bed Fell" in his autobiography _My Life and Hard Times_.


	9. One of THOSE in our midst! Every Which Way But Loose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This began as a humor piece, but it decided to take a dramatic turn, hence the change of genre. Feedback is greatly desired for this chapter, for the not so simple reason that there are quite a few passionate encounters in this part, and I would really like to know if I've pushed the rating over the edge of PG-13 into R territory. I got this chapter (and the next three) off rather quickly, as I was trying to get this finished so I could TRY to get back to _Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth_ , which "Lady Neferankh" on the Yahoo! Group "AI_Fanfiction" has been bugging me to complete (Thank you for your gracious reminder, your ladyship!), and which I am having a terrible time plotting since I am simply not sure how it ends. But I knew how this one ended, hence Chapter IX, and please God, X and XI as well. This chapter is sponsored in part by…Sudafed Nasal Decongestant! Because the stupid allergy meds I'm on have flat out refused to work this ragweed season, I've been half-living on the stuff (End of commercial).

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I also don't own the lyrics to the Kurt Weill song (from _Threepenny Opera_ ), nor do I own restraining bolts (wouldn't want to, either!), which are a device (Literary and gadget-wise) I borrowed from _Star Wars_.

Chapter IX

Every Which Way but Loose

Cecie settled on curling up in Peter's armchair and waiting up for Joe. At one in the same time, next time she saw him, she wanted to bash his processors in or to grab him by the throat and give him such a face-chewing kiss…

And she was responsible for all this… She'd egged him on to associating with Bernie. She'd brought him here to Westhillston. She'd paid for his services. He'd taken her literally and Frank, utilizing Joe's capabilities and inclinations, hadn't helped the matter, either. What she'd hoped would loosen up Bernie ended up creating a prison for them all.

Now he was after Allison. She should have seen it come to that. Allison…She'd married Shay Diocletian after Shay's first wife, Kristine, had drowned in a boating accident in New Hampshire, on Lake Winnipesaukee ten years ago. Some people had suspected Shay, since he had taken her death so calmly, but they were the ones who didn't know Shay well. If you looked up "icy bastard" in a dictionary, you'd find a picture of Seamus Diocletian. And if Tami's gossip was true, it was no wonder Allison would look elsewhere for the tenderness she needed.

But why did she have to turn to Joe?

Cecie was paying the price of that little interlude in the graveyard. Her slim body ached for Joe's touch, to feel him against her, on top of her, to nestle her head close to where his heart would be, her nostrils tingling with the scent of him, a warm, musky aroma with an overtone of roses and maybe lavender, to taste once again his kiss, to fall asleep, chastely, in his embrace…

She was in love.

The girl who'd held her head up for three years had fallen for one of Rouge City's hottest Mecha man-whores.

 _"You may as well take the sun for a desk lamp."_

She loved Joe.

The words of a Kurt Weill song came to her mind:

"Chin up high?

My chin was down my shoes

And I relaxed but far too far.

Oh, the way the moon kept shining on,

The night was made for rowing,

But this girl was gone

Not so per-pen-di-cu-lar.

So, you let a man just walk right over you.

Who said dignified is what you are?

Such a whole lot of terrible things did happen,

And now it's _you_ can tell me, 'Sorry'."

She caught herself wishing she had spirited him outside again to distract him. She could have pulled this off in middle of the fracas earlier, but she hadn't had a chance.

She was tempted to go down to the Diocletians' house, find Joe and drag him back home, wrenching him out of Allison's arms if need be.

She knew people were already regarding her askance behind her back. After this, Mildred and her cronies would REALLY have something to talk about:

 _"Did you hear?"_

 _"Hear what?"_

 _"About Allison Diocletian and that THING Cecie Martin brought **here** to this town…"_

Wagging her head wearily, she sank her long fingers into her short hair and tousled it. She squeezed her scalp and gritted her teeth. Her reason withdrew and her will retreated to protect itself from the barrage of thoughts and feelings and images that pelted her psyche...

Allison lay huddled in a blanket on the glider on the screen porch at the rear of her house. Her tears had stopped, and she had nearly dozed off when she heard a light step crackle on the gravel walk outside. She pinched herself and sat up.

Joe's tall, slender shadow stood framed in the door of the porch that gave on the walk. He tapped on the doorframe lightly, the sound just audible over the rusty crickets chirping in the grass.

"Joe?"

"It is I."

"The door's open; I unlocked it."

"Would that Diocletian's heart were so simple to open as this door," he mused. He turned the knob and opened the door, just wide enough to slip inside. Stepping swiftly aside, he closed it behind him with just a click and a jangle of the spring on the hinge.

He stood poised before her, balanced lightly on his toes, hands clasped loosely behind his back, a willowy black silhouette against the silver-blue moonlight. The gleam on his garments, on his neat, black hair, seemed to give off a light all its own. She shivered at the sight of him.

"Does the night cold chill your bones?" he asked, taking a graceful stride toward her.

"No, it's…I'm afraid," she admitted.

He paused, one foot lifted behind the other. "Of me? Of love?"

"Not of you. I'm afraid of being hurt."

"He has hurt you?"

"He hasn't laid a hand on me. It's like I told you…he's hurt me inside."

He took another step toward her, changing angle slightly. "They say the worst pain comes from the wound the eye cannot see. Come, let me soothe these wounds."

She trembled, straining her ears to listen for any movement in the house. "I don't know. I don't know if I can."

"I think you are afraid of comfort. I think you are afraid of seeking solace. You know your heart needs it, but you fear to reach out for it when it is offered to you…and this is starting to arouse me."

His third stride brought him up to the glider. He knelt down before her and took her hands in his. She started to pull away, but her hands clung to his, so soft, so delicate her own hands felt coarse by contrast.

"Is this your first time with something like me?" he asked.

"It's my first time with anyone but Shay."

"And you have known no other man?"

"No. I never even had any other boyfriends."

"Then you will find, through me, that love does not have to bring pain…or emptiness."

"I will?"

"Once you've had a lover-Mecha, you may never want a 'real' man again. I can do for you what Shay refuses."

She looked down, at _that_ spot, but down to the floor, to his heels. "Can you do one thing for me?"

"I can do much for you, fulfilling, within reason, the dreams you have not dared to dream."

"This is going to sound foolish, but it's very important, well, to me anyway…could you take off your shoes first? Shay sometimes forgets to when…you know."

"Anything to oblige you, and this is no challenge on my part." He let go her hands, reached back and down and, without taking his eyes from her, removed his shoes and laid them neatly side-by-side on the floor.

She laughed with half-suppressed delight and nervousness. She reached up and took his hands. He felt warm to her touch, warmer even than Shay. As he drew himself closer to her, Joe slid his palms up inside the baggy sleeves of her sweater. She giggled half with enjoyment, half with an unease that soon became delicious.

That was warm breath she felt fanning her face, smelling oddly of vanilla. A spicy aroma, very like the aftershave she'd given Shay for his birthday years ago—and which he never wore—tingled in her nostrils.

He studied her face gently from under lowered lids. "You have been crying. What has he done to you—or not done to you?"

"I wanted to go up to the Lakes region in New Hampshire this weekend. It's our anniversary. I thought it could just be the two of us, him and I."

"But he refused your desire?"

"He said we couldn't afford it. But I know we can."

"And instead, his practicality has replaced his sense of romance. This is a disgrace to any man." He tilted his face to hers and touched the traces of damp on her cheeks with his lips. She trembled, delighted; Shay have never done this for her when she was sad.

"You enjoyed that?" he asked.

"No one's ever done that for me."

"There is much I could do for you which doubtlessly _he_ has not done for you."

She leaned back on the cushions. He climbed up on the glider, pushing back the blanket, and covering her with his long, lean body. He easily weighed ninety pounds less than Shay did, so that she didn't feel engulfed as his weight gently pressed her into the cushions.

"I'm sorry I look like this. I never was much for looks."

He laid his index finger over her lips. "You need not feel such shame. You are a goddess. I am your devotee, your adorer. I give myself in total to you as an offering. Take me and do with me what you will."

"Just be gentle with me," she said.

"That is what you need, and that is what I propose to be to you."

She slid her hands, trembling, inside his collar, opening it; she tried not to stare at the luminous green tag set into the skin of his upper chest, high up under the collar bone, or whatever he had under there.

She tilted her face up to his to avoid looking at it, gazing instead into his lustrous green eyes looking into hers from under his long lashes. She parted her lips, running her tongue over them nervously.

He took this as a cue, but she welcomed him, welcomed his kiss, welcomed his lips on hers, soft as a rose, warm like a summer night, just moist enough that he felt…real. She kissed him back as she had not been able to with Shay for a long time, for too long, letting this dark gentleman who wasn't really a man take liberties with her that Shay had never stooped to allow.

As their passion climaxed, she felt tears of delight pour from her eyes, even as she cried out to the moon in ecstasy

Through the fog in her mind's ears, Cecie heard the front door click open. She jumped up from the chair and ran into the hallway.

Joe stood there, with his back to her, resetting the smart lock.

"How did you get in? The lock was on smart?" she demanded.

He straightened up and turned toward her, setting down his heels soundlessly into the turn.

"Before I departed, I took the time to override the field on this particular entryway," he said.

"You make every door open for you," she snarled. "There's nothing you can't penetrate, is there? Is there?"

He eyed her in silence, but a slow smile tweaked at one corner of his sensuous mouth. "That such vehemence would manifest in so short a time. Bernadette is not the only one who seeks to have loosened the chains of her maidenhood—"

Cecie grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and slammed his back up against the wall. "Who were you with? Answer me, Joe! Who called you?"

"It was Allison Diocletian," he said. Something like fear dampened the electric fire in his green eyes, but the smoldering look soon returned.

She shook him slightly. "You had to do her, didn't you? Didn't you? If it wasn't Bernie, it was her. I know you've serviced married women and you do it all the time, but, dammit, you didn't have to f- Allison! That's my ex-boss's wife, and he's one of the most prominent guys locally. Thanks to you, I'll probably never be able to show my face in this town again."

He took this all with typical Mecha impassivity, smiling coolly at her outburst.

"Your protestations only confirm that which you denied so ardently," he mused. He fingered her neck lightly with just the tip of one finger, so lightly she just felt him graze the top layer of her skin. "You are jealous, and this jealousy consumes you; it seethes within you like a toxin, burning you up, eating into your flesh, inflaming your brain and driving you mad—"

She silenced him. She crushed her face into his so hard they bumped noses and their teeth clicked against each other; she saw stars for several seconds. She jammed his mouth open as far as it would go, as if she were trying to shove her whole lower face inside. His arms slid around her, pressing her against him, his hands creeping down her spine to the small of her back, where her jersey had come untucked. An Orga man would be grunting for lack of oxygen by now, and her own ears had started to sing. She flared her nostrils and drew in a chestfull of air. Just as she started to release him, his fingers fondled the flesh of her back, as he slid his hands up under her shirt.

She slapped his arms from her with a martial arts gesture from her T'ai Chi training.

"So the white crane spreads her wings?" he commented, with a drawl dripping with irony.

She lunged again, pinning his wrists to the wall. "Consider yourself lucky I don't follow through and knife-hand your temples," she growled.

"And what, pray tell, brings out this show of fury?"

"What do you think? _I_ paid for you, _I_ brought you up here. _I'm_ the one who intended to turn this town upside down by bringing _you_ into the middle of all this imitation Norman Rockwell charm, you, the last thing they'd ever want to see walking their streets. But what did you go and do, you man-whore? You go and mount practically every woman who bats her eyelids and hikes up her skirts to you!"

He shrugged casually. "So be it, if that is what they desire of me. _C'est la vie_."

"Damn your smugness. Damn your condescension. And damn the people who designed and programmed you. You did it, you stupid rutting heap of silicon and titanium. You made me fall in love with you. And you're nothing better than a sex toy with a brain."

"I made you do nothing. It is you who have chosen to follow your emotions to this decision. But these sound not like the words of a lover…unless you prefer it rough and hard."

"'Look into the mirror of your soul

Love and hate are one in all

Sacrifice turns to revenge, and believe me

You will see the face that will say to you

"I love you…I'll kill you. /But I'll love you forever"'." she hissed.

She dragged him away from the wall, her hands clenching the front of his shirt and whatever dermis she had gathered underneath. She hauled him, unprotesting, into the living room.

"From whence have you learned such fury?" he asked.

"You taught it to me, you with your stupid machismo."

He laughed lightly. "Most women say that I am the soft, sensitive type."

"You're still more than I can take. And let me tell you, honey, you are _so_ gonna find out what you're doing to me inside."

She lifted him off the floor with both hands—he weighed only twenty pounds more than she did, and she'd carried heavy boxes in the bakery—and hurled him onto the couch. When he landed, he looked up at her, slightly baffled, but he relaxed his visage. He started to rearrange his limbs into a more graceful pose, but she kneed him in the face.

She ripped the lamp cord from the wall socket and, sitting on his stomach, used it to tie his wrists behind his back.

He turned his head to watch what she was doing. "Why do you do this?" he asked.

"If you touch me with those nice soft little hands of yours, my armor will fall off," she said. "Now not another word!"

He turned his eyes to her and turned his face back to hers. His mouth pursed in an odd little smile.

"Wipe that smile off your face," she growled, her voice trembling slightly.

She pounced on him then, tearing his shirt open from the neck to the waist, uncovering the green tag embedded in the dermis of his upper chest. How could anyone look at that while they were with him and not be reminded of what he was? No matter…

Her anger drove her to lengths she would never have reached when she was relaxed. She let her anger and disappointment explode over him. She swore she felt him cringing and trembling even as her own insides started to knot themselves.

His breathing simulation came in quick, anguished gasps, his chest heaving as her movements grew more violent.

"Oh God…Oh God…mercy!…Oh God…have mercy!…" His light tenor cracked into a pain-shrilled alto.

She remotely heard her voice saying, "That'll be one hundred fifty Newbucks, Mr. Joe-the-Gigolo" as she let him go and unbound him. He whimpered, his face turned from her into the upholstery.

Everything dissolved into a red mist…

Joe held Allison until her tears stopped flowing and she lay peaceful and quiet, her breath coming gently, soundlessly. He sat up slowly, carefully turning her over on her back. He drew her garments over her form, and pulled the blanket up to the pit of her throat.

He knelt beside the glider and laid a parting kiss on her forehead. He wiped away one last stubborn tear on her cheek, with the tip of his thumb and got up to collect his scattered garments.

The pheromones that emanated from her skin hinted of a contented woman, utterly at peace, blissfully dazed and sedately sated with pleasure, the pleasure brought by the embrace of a perfect lover. She who had known worse than imperfection now knew the caress of perfection. After years of adolescent fumbling and cold coupling offered by a man with thick fingers and icy manners, she had received the refreshment of a tender devotee with a gentle hand and a soft voice, who poured the whole of his being into her satisfaction, giving pleasure without taking or asking for anything in return.

But he, like Diocletian, was a man of business. Joe reached under the pillow at Allison's head and felt for the envelope she had told him was there. He touched its fibrously smooth edge against his touch receptors, between the silkiness of the pillow and the coarse cover of the glider cushions. He grasped the envelope and slid it out; he opened it: two hundred fifty NB…that meant a hundred dollar tip. Not bad, not bad at all. He slipped the envelope into his coat pocket, alongside the one hundred fifty Frank had given him for playfully cornering Bernie.

He reached down and passed his fingertips over Allison's cheek one time more before he rose and stepped out into the night.

He passed by a clump of bushes close to the wall of the house, bushes set high up so that they formed a little room all its own.

He heard a soft sound, like a whimper. He paused and pivoted on his heel, turning back to the clump of shrubbery. Drawing close, he crouched down and peered inside.

Two forms lay entwined in the shadows. Joe recognized the infamous Seamus Diocletian, who forgot to take off his shoes, but who was the woman?

He noted something unusual about the stranger's skin: like his it had an odd sheen to it.

Joe smiled to himself. Tit for tat…

Through the spiraling clouds of mist in her mind, Cecie heard the front door open and close. She felt her body trembling all over; a cold sweat had broken out on her back. She huddled her frame deeper into the chair. The damp on her face didn't come just from sweat; tears ran down the inside of her nose. She shivered so violently her teeth chattered. She was awake now. That she could have such a dream about Joe…!

She heard movement. Someone moved quietly into the room. She heard the sound of synthetic fabric whisper on synthetics and a garment tossed dramatically aside. A soft thud on the carpet, followed by another, then the sofa creaked softly.

She opened her eyes and uncurled herself from the depths of the chair. She sat up and looked across to the sofa.

She found Joe there, reclining against one arm of the sofa, jacket off, collar open, shoes kicked off. He leaned back with his arms folded behind his head, his long legs propped up slightly, crossed at the knees. His face bore a sly little smile of triumph, like the face of a scamp who's just made a feast for himself after raiding the refrigerator and had settled back to digest it.

"Where in heaven's name have you been?" she demanded.

"I have been where you never thought to look: out and about, soothing the broken hearts of this village, or I ought rather to say, one bruised heart in particular," he replied.

"Whose?" _As if I didn't know…_

"The heart of Allison Diocletian. I left her blissfully asleep on the screen porch of their house, where she had gone to take refuge from the tyranny of her spouse, who I ought rightly to add, is no fount of conjugal fidelity."

"Well, I know the buzzard had more than a slightly roving eye. What do you know that I don't?"

"In which case, I must ask you this: do you have knowledge of the breed of company he keeps?"

"No, not specifically, why?"

"As I sallied forth to return hence, I came upon him couched in the shrubbery near one wall of their house with another of my kind, a female, though I could not see her face."

She sat up. Was she still dreaming? Diocletian, who turned up his nose at service droids? She had a hard enough time envisioning—in theory—the cold buzzard getting frisky with Allison, but with a Mecha? What a combination…it probably emoted better than he did.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I am not. I cannot lie to you, even in jest."

She'd seen Diocletian shirtless when he had been helping Peter dredge the pond some years ago. Shay had put on a few extra pounds since then. At the time of the topless bit, she had been working in the store, so after witnessing Shay as God made him from the waist up, she'd wisely kept a game face until she got up to her room, where she'd let loose laughing herself dizzy.

She sniggered at the thought of Shay with a female one of _those_.

Joe studied her face, his eyes panning over it. His smooth brow furrowed and he got up. He came close to her and knelt before her chair.

"You have been crying," he observed. He stooped over her, inching his face closer to hers. "What has brought about your grief?" He cocked his head looking at her. "Are these the tears of yearning…is it true what you protest as vehemently even as it claws your heart?"

"What?" She knew…

His forehead came level with hers, his lips almost against her cheek as he spoke.

"You are jealous. You are jealous for what I could do for Bernie. You are jealous for I have just done for Allison…But you need not be jealous much longer: I can relieve you of this fire. I can douse it for you sooner than these silly tears and enkindle you with another fire much more worth feeling in your breast."

The anger of the dream flooded into her reality. She sat up and slapped him across the face. He fell back, catching himself on one arm. He looked up at her with a wide-eyed "What mean you by this?" expression.

She got up, stepping over his supine form. She turned back to him. He had recovered and started to get up from the floor. She stepped away from him.

"You'll…do…no…such… _thing_ for me!" she said, forming each word clearly and precisely. "I am _not_ going to be the next woman in your list of conquests, you silicon Don Juan.

She turned and strode from the room. But she felt his eyes follow her, his gaze burning into her back as she headed upstairs.

Once in her room, she checked to make sure Bernie was not in her bed. Then where was she? She certainly wouldn't be with Frank. _Must be in her old room._

She pulled the bedcovers over her head, but she could not sleep. The fierce images of her dream and the look of shock and confusion on Joe's face after she had slapped him, those hovered in her mind's eye, keeping her awake.

For a few minutes, she envied Sarah, who slept unconcernedly on her cot at the foot of the bed.

Next morning, they had breakfast early. Of the Orgas in the room, Frank looked the most bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he studiously avoided Bernie, not coldly, but as if he were playing hard to get.

Mat and Ellen came right after to fetch Irene and take her to the monorail station.

"You take care of Kip till I see you again," Irene admonished her daughter in law.

Phila blushed. "He's taking good care of me," she said.

"Good, that's as it should be," Irene said with a spritely grin. "Men demand too much from their women too often; but I guess this proves I raised him right."

"You raised him very well," Phila said.

Irene reached up to Joe and caressed his arm. "You behave for Cecie; if you were of flesh and blood, I'd say you were right lucky to find her."

"Some would say, were I of flesh and blood that she would be 'right lucky' as well," he replied.

"You're both lucky," she said. "One kiss to tide me over till I see you again? Not too deep now." She glared gleefully at Peter as she said this.

"But of course, your ladyship," Joe said, stooping down to her and kissing her.

He released her lingeringly; Irene swatted his rear playfully.

"That'll do, garcon," she said. Peter groaned and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Ferde and his girls left next; Peter was driving them to the hyperjet terminal in Amherst.

"If Pete gives you any grief whatsoever, you call me for a few pointers," Ferde told Frank as he helped carry the bags downstairs. He set down his trunk and reached into his shirt pocket for his calling card. "I don't care what time it is, or where we are, you give me a yell."

"Thanks, Ferde. Except for Kip and Cecie—and maybe Joe—you've been my chief ally all along."

"Hey, I been defusin' Peter for fifty years; I know which buttons to push. One las' thing, about Bernie." He glanced over his shoulder. "Try slipping her a mickey, y' know, something to get her juices flowing. I don't know about the new stuff, but maybe our shiny friend would know what will loosen her up inside."

"I thought of that, but I didn't dare try it. But if that's what it takes…I don't want another night like last night."

"Who could fault yah?"

"Peter."

Ferde guffawed raucously. "Now yer talkin'."

After he'd dropped Ferde's family off at the hyperjet terminal, Peter drove straight to the grocery store in Westhillston on business.

After his meeting with Diocletian, his college friend reached under his desk and pulled out a slightly dusty bottle of Irish whiskey. He poured an eighth of an inch into the bottoms of two paper cups.

"There's something important I have to talk to you about," Diocletian said, handing one cup to Peter.

"What about?"

"It has to do with that Mecha of Cecie's."

"Why, has it approached Allison again?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but there's something going on. Last night, Allison was sleeping on the screen porch; she always goes there to think things over after she's started rocking the boat. I was sleeping in the basement, just to get away from her complaining. Well, I got up in the night to take care of nature, when I heard something outside. So I looked out…and I saw someone—or, more likely, something that looked an awful lot like Cecie's Mecha walk by, coming from the backyard."

"I can't keep an eye on that thing, especially last night: Frank got that thing to molest Bernie, so he could use that as a means to get her to lie with him."

Diocletian snorted. "They just got married, Peter. When I first married Allison, I could hardly keep my hands off her the first few months."

"But you've always been sensible. Frank isn't a virgin, and I suspect he's…made use of Mecha females."

"That could be a problem."

"Are you sure it was Joe?"

"I'm positive; the thing has a face you can't mistake—except for Frank's, but this visage was much too shiny."

"So what are you getting at?"

"What I'm getting at is this: I think Allison was fooling around with the thing."

Peter dropped his drink. "Good heavens protect us! I can't have that happen again. Georgette suspected Bernie has designs on that thing. And who knows what Cecie's been doing with it. I'll have to find some way to tie it up."

"You don't tie Mechas, you fit them with a restraining bolt."

"How do you know that?"

Diocletian knocked back his whiskey. "I have a friend who knows all about these things. I could get a bolt from him."

"That would be perfect. Cecie isn't leaving until Friday, but that should hold it till then. But how would you get the bolt on him?"

"I'll bring it tonight when I come by to pick up the lights."

"But how would we put the bolt on it without Cecie finding out? She's very protective of the thing."

"That's easy: I've got that quick-acting sedative my doctor gave me for my insomnia. The hard part is finding a way to palm it into her seltzer mimosa."

"Drug her?"

"That's what it might take; she'd kill us both if she knew."

"Taking the lights down takes half the time of putting them up," Kip observed, as he and Frank took down the strings of lights in the garden. Cecie helped them, winding the Diocletians' lights back onto the plastic frames, working quickly and efficiently. She had her MP3 player clipped to her belt, her wireless earphones screwed into her ears.

"Yeah, that's because you know ex _act_ ly where to put 'em: from the trees to the storage thing," Frank said. He looked at Cecie. "Gee, it's a wonder she isn't tangling the strings hopelessly."

"She looks pretty grim," Kip noted. Cecie's face was a mask of irritation and indifference.

"What's she blaring on that player?"

"Sounds like Enigma to me. Not a good sign if she's blaring it, or that's what Phila tells me."

Frank set a string of lights on the ground near Cecie and stepped away cautiously as Cecie reached for it without looking up.

"Wonder what got into her? She isn't bantering with Joe, either," Frank said.

Joe sat on the grass in a patch of sunlight between the end of the wall and the yew trees, the clear light turning his eyes to gold. She didn't even look at him as she worked. But he watched her with his usual quiet devotion, clearly waiting for her to look his way.

She took the MP3 player from her belt and pressed a few buttons before replacing it. The music suddenly got noisier

"What's that now?"

"Oh boy, very bad, according to Phila: she's blaring Ministry."

Frank laid the last string he'd taken down on the flag stones about six feet from Cecie's boots and darted away like a male spider retreating from a female after mating. Cecie picked the string up, then with an odd smile, she wound it slackly around the frame, weaving the strings in and out around each other until it looked like a bird's nest.

"Looks like she may be recovering," Frank said.

She turned down the volume on the MP3 player.

"You might have just given her the cure for what ails her," Kip said.

Cecie carried the boxes with the Connellys' lights back up to their place in the attic. While she was up there, Frank caught up with Joe on the stairs.

"I guess that was the easiest one-fifty you ever made," Frank said.

"You might call it such," Joe said.

"I got a question for you: do you know what is the best aphrodisiac for a woman?"

"Aside from simple affection and gallantry, there are several naturally derived substances which may raise a woman's confidence and help to relax her," he said. "In Bernadette's case, you might wish to procure a liquid form compound known by the brand name LavenDesire. However, no drug store in this town would carry it…however, you may be able to obtain it in one of the larger urban areas nearby, though they probably do not stock it openly."

"What does this mean, you can only get it on the black market?"

"Not precisely; one might call it the gray market."

"I'll take your word for it," Frank said. "Wonder if Kip would let me borrow his cruiser so I can drive up to Amherst?"

"Perhaps he would consent, should you promise to pay, in whole or in part, for a new fuel cell?"

"Good thinking. Y' know, for a fiberhead, you're really with it. I'd say there's more intelligence than artificiality about you."

Joe smiled proudly. "Most folk would argue your statement."

Frank went down to the garage, where he found Kip tinkering with his cruiser, getting it ready for the trip back.

"Hey, Kip, can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, what is it, bro?"

"This shouldn't be painful: could you loan me the cruiser for an hour? I gotta go to Amherst for an important errand." He held up a 10 NB note. "Would this cover the fuel cell?"

"Well, sure. Thanks."

At supper, Frank offered to refill Bernie's milk glass, which fortunately meant getting up to fill it in the kitchen.

The LavenDesire had a slightly purple tinge, so he switched the glass for a purple one. He accidentally on purpose knocked the first glass into the sink. It smashed nicely. There, he had a cover.

He three-quarters filled the glass and poured in the LavenDesire.

Diocletian came around for the lights just after supper, as the girls and Kip were clearing the table.

"Stephen has some good news," Peter told Diocletian.

"So, has his ship come in?" the older man asked.

"You tell him, Stephen," Peter said to his son.

"The Indian Mountain School accepted me as a teacher's aide; I'm starting Monday," Stephen said, his face turning pink across the cheekbones.

Diocletian reached over and clapped Stephen on the shoulder. "There's our boy. We knew you could do it. Now, are you going back to the seminary?"

"No, I don't have a vocation, I don't have the stamina for clerical life."

"Can't you do anything to change that?"

"It's these seizures, they came back with a vengeance."

"I read recently that the medical researchers might be treating that with nanotechnology. Seems they can inject into you these tiny things that repair the affected areas in your brain."

"I've heard about it, but the last I heard it was in the experimental stage."

"Perhaps you could volunteer?" Georgette asked.

"There are too many risks," Stephen said.

"Besides, it might fall under self-endangerment and indirect suicide," Peter argued.

"No, the _Catechism_ says it's absolutely permissible as long as the person gives their full and willing consent, paragraph 2293," Cecie said, drinking the last of her seltzer mimosa.

"I'll have to look that up," Peter said.

Diocletian eyed Cecie's empty glass just as Joe, on her left, took note of it as well.

"Cecie, you want another of those?" Diocletian asked.

"Would you not rather that I did you the honor?" Joe asked, trying to look her in the eye.

"Well, since you were gracious enough to ask, Mr. Diocletian, sure," Cecie said.

"That might be the best," Peter said, glaring at Joe.

"Why would you trust that thing anyway?" Diocletian said, taking the glass.

"He tends bar nights every other month in one of the clubs in Rouge City," she explained. "He's not half bad with mimosas."

When Diocletian had gone, Joe turned to her. "So you would accept his ministrations over mine?" he said, his eyes gone cold, his chin lifted primly.

"Listen, I'll talk to you, but that may be the extant of it," Cecie informed him. "Besides," she darted a grin at the kitchen door. "I've never seen Shay Diocletian so jovial before except at Christmas, so I figured I may as well run with it while I can. I'll tell you why some other time."

Diocletian returned with the filled glass and handed it to Cecie. "I hope I did mixed it right; I got it as close to fifty-fifty as I could."

She took it. "Thanks," she said, hiding her amusement. Joe turned his face away, lips curled in disgust.

As she drank the mimosa, Cecie caught herself suddenly tuning out the conversation around her, instead of calmly listening and making her usual pointed mental remarks. Her head felt heavy and her eyelids kept trying to droop.

Joe must have sensed the change in her demeanor: he leaned closer to her, putting his arm around the back of her chair.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked.

"I just feel tired," she said. "Must be all these late nights the past few days."

"Are they late nights or are they early days?" he quipped.

She couldn't help smiling at this, despite her exhaustion. She stood up.

"I hate to seem impolite, but I'm turning in for the night," she said, holding the back of her chair for balance. "So, good night, everyone."

"Are you okay?" Georgette asked.

"Yeah, it's just all the craziness at night this past week," Cecie said.

"May I see you to your door?" Joe offered. He had risen with her.

"I'll be okay," Cecie said, heading for the stairs. She tripped on the rug in the hallway. Joe came to her side and helped her up.

"On second thought, maybe I'd better accept your offer," she said, letting him put his arm about her back to support her, and holding his hand in hers.

"I think I'll go out and enjoy the night before it gets too chilly," Bernie said, coming back from the kitchen.

"Want me to join you? I could use a breath of air myself," Frank said, getting up.

"Well…in a little while, I guess,' she said

"Now?" Peter mouthed to Diocletian.

The larger man listened. He pointed one thick index finger to the ceiling, tracking the footsteps above with the tip.

Cecie stumbled at the head of the stairs and nearly fell on her face, pulling Joe down. She felt just too wasted to get up. She let Joe pull her up to her feet, then he gently lifted her in his arms and carried her up the hall to her room.

"Really, you don't have to do this," she protested.

"It would not be proper; you sleepless nights have taken their toll on your strength," he replied.

"And you were part of the reason for that," she said. She slid one arm around his neck. "'Spose I should get payback for it."

"I debt I would gladly fulfill," he said, not understanding. He pushed the door open with his elbow and carried her inside.

He laid her down on the pillows and knelt to untie her boots. He slid them off, then drew the blankets from under her, pulling them up to her chest. He undid the collar of her blouse. Perching on the edge of the mattress, he leaned down and kissed her on the lips, chastely, before placing a second, more scorching kiss on the pit of her throat.

"Would you have me linger?" he asked.

"No, Peter'll squawk. Y' better go down, or you'll never get down there tonight."

"Let me stay until you fall asleep. Please allow me this."

"Okay, Mr. Charmingly Annoying, but sit back from me."

"As you desire." He sat up and settled back at her feet.

She fell asleep within seconds.

Diocletian went upstairs as quickly and quietly as a man of his bulk could. Peter followed.

"When we get up there, you pin him to the wall. I'll take care of the rest," Diocletian said in a low voice.

As they reached the head of the stairs, the door to Cecie's room opened and something emerged that gleamed in the diffused light of the moon streaming through an unshaded window. The shadow of the closing door hid the moonlight. A dark form moved toward them through the gloom.

And then suddenly, it stood before them at the head of the stairs. It had moved so quietly they didn't hear it approach. Its eyes flicked from Diocletian's face to Peter's, blank but betraying something like caution, even suspicion.

"What do you gentlemen require of me?" it asked.

"We needed to talk to you for a minute," Peter said, switching on the light. He stepped up to it. He grabbed it by the shoulders and pushed its back up against the wall of the hallway. It tried to slip out from under his arm, but he stuck his knee into its shirtfront.

"Peter, take your knee out of the way," Diocletian said.

"Mr. Connelly, this is no manner in which to treat a guest," the Mecha said.

"You've worn out your welcome, Mr. Joe-the-Gigolo," Peter said, following Diocletian's command. "You've brought nothing but dishonor on this house, and you've brought this on yourself."

Diocletian took from the pocket of his jacket a Philips screwdriver and a cylindrical object of black metal, about as big around at one end as a double-A battery and as long as two put end to end. A flat round knob slightly bigger around than the shaft of the object protruded from one end of it, while the other end tapered almost to a point.

Diocletian stuck the screwdriver through his belt. With one hand, he grabbed the front of Joe's gleaming gray shirt and yanked it free of its waistband.

He uncovered the thing's belly (stomach? abdomen? What did you call it?), exposing what looked like a navel, exactly where it would be on a flesh and blood human. Diocletian put the flat of his palm on the thing's flesh (!), surrounding the navel with thumb and forefinger. The Mecha's abdomen drew in slightly and its mouth curved in a gently nervous smile; it was ticklish.

"Good heavens! They gave this thing a navel?" Peter asked.

"Correction: it's an access port," Diocletian said, fitting the bolt between the thumb and forefinger that surrounded said access port. "And cover its mouth; he might cry out."

Peter put his shoulder against the Mecha's chest; it tried to slip out during the adjustment, but he shoved it back, knocking its head against the wall as he covered its mouth. It emitted a small shriek under his hand.

"This is the price you pay, fiberhead, for messing with an honest man's wife." Diocletian backed away slightly and, with a thrust of his whole lower body behind his hand, drove the bolt through the access port.

The Mecha writhed under Peter's grasp and let out a muffled scream under his hand.

Diocletian drove in the knob with a couple turns of the screwdriver. The Mecha's face went from pain to a kind of blank resignation.

Diocletian put the screwdriver back in his pocket. "You can let it go now."

Peter released the Mecha hesitantly, not sure what it would do once freed. It pulled its upper body away from the wall. Then it glanced down, his smooth brows creased with confusion. It looked up at them, its eyes rising first, then the head lifting.

"What have you done to me?" it asked.

"You've been fitted with a restraining bolt, my friend," Diocletian said, in a decidedly unfriendly voice. He slung Joe over his shoulder. "Peter, where can we stow him—it?"

"There's a broom closet down the hallway; we can put it there."

"Perfect." Peter preceded them down the hall to the closet and opened the door. Diocletian thrust his burden inside, propping it against the side wall.

The Mecha raised its eyes to them as Peter closed the door.

In her room, Cecie dimly heard the voices in the hallway, but the drug tangled her brain neurons with chemical cobwebs and kept her from getting up to see what went on.

Bernie walked along the path of the walled garden. For the first time since Friday, she felt relaxed, at ease. She breathed deeply, imbibing great pints of the chill night air, tasting the aromas on it: the late hydrangeas, the pines, the yew, and that odd, sharp scent that tangs in the air of a New England autumn night. She sighed, letting herself enjoy the night scents.

She heard footsteps behind her. She turned around. She expected to find Joe there, slinking up behind her, trying to ingratiate himself into her arms, but she found Frank there, gazing up at the moon just starting to wane.

He did not look at her. He seemed to ignore her. Was this another ploy, or was this for real? Somehow the question seemed completely irrelevant. She walked up to him.

"Hello," she said.

He looked at her. "Oh, I'm sorry: I didn't see you there." He sounded as if he meant it.

She gazed up at the moon. "It's beautiful tonight."

"Yes, it is."

She looked at him, then up at the moon. "And this is the same moon that's been shining on young people for millennia." She couldn't believe she said that, but…somehow she felt utterly at ease with this new feeling of confidence. She reached out and put her hand in Frank's. He looked down at her, almost doing a double take.

"My, you're getting frisky: must be the moonlight." He felt as if he might withdraw. But she clasped this hand tighter and, facing him, took his other hand in hers.

This _different_ feeling grew stronger, but perhaps it wasn't a different feeling so much as a different side of herself, some part that had lain dormant and repressed for much too long.

Repressed? She could hear Peter's voice talking about how the marriage debt had to be discharged with a solemn, sacramental reverence. But she could hear Phila and Kip whispering and tittering in the kitchen as they did the dishes, and their delighted yelps and cascades of laughter she'd heard behind the closed door of their room. And through this, she could hear and see, in her mind's ear and eye, Cecie sitting on the back porch, drinking a mimosa from a jam glass, with Joe reclining gracefully at her feet, listening with wrapt if incomprehensive attention while she talked about the divinely comic quality of the sacraments.

"I mean, think about it this way: God is a spirit, right? So you'd think that this all-powerful Being without a body, who asks us to become like Him would expect us to do without the physical junk that clutters up the earth, right? Wrong! He stoops down and gives us His grace by means we can see and touch. He even incorporates two of our basic bodily functions: He enters our very body, over the teeth and over the gums, right into our belly, as a scrap of bread and a sip of wine. And He even made a sacrament out of that most profound and ridiculous bodily function known as sex. I see the kind of knots people tie themselves into over romantic attraction; and somehow, after a lot of ups and downs, God uses this means to achieve the goal of helping two people come home to Him, along with whatever kids nature has allowed them to bear. Nobody tell me that God is completely serious all the time: why would He use the stuff of romantic comedies to weave the fabric of the human race? We see the knots and snarls, and you may as well chuckle over it or you'll go crazy, but He knows the pattern on the other side."

Tying knots…she'd tied the knot with Frank now, but she couldn't get herself to go further.

Loosening cords…Joe had, with his oddly innocent passion and with no thought for himself, offered to untie the cords bound about her heart. She'd almost let him do this, which would only have tangled matters. And she realized she was denying Frank what was really his due.

"Bernie, I'm sorry about last night," he said.

"You were only trying. Cecie would say we do a lot of dumb things before we get wise to the right things."

His hands loosened their grip on hers. "Listen: if you really think it won't work, if you really think I'm not the right guy for you, we don't have to go through with this. We can file for an annulment and go our separate ways. Whatever you do then, I'll accept it as far as I'm able to."

She squeezed his hands. "No, Frank, I mean…it's gonna take me a while to get used to, but I think I can get my courage up and do this for you."

"It's more like letting me do it for you. I can show you the stars, Bern, but only if you'll let me. I can't force you: as weak as I've been, I'm not that kind of guy."

"Can we take it in steps?"

"If that's what makes you comfortable, sure."

She put her arms around his waist and leaned her chin against his shoulder. He put one arm around her, slowly, pressing her against him.

"Can we sit down?" she asked

"Sure, if you'd feel more comfortable." He led her to the stone bench.

Peter heard the screen door on the deck open and close as he set about checking the house. Bernie and Frank passed through, heading upstairs. Each had one arm about the other's waist.

"Where are you going?" Peter asked.

"Just up to bed, to sleep," Frank said.

On the stairs, Frank glanced back and down into the living room. _Okay, where's my Mecha twin?_ he wondered. His next thought was, _Oh boy, Cecie and Joe are at it and Peter doesn't know?_ But then he had an odd feeling that wasn't it either.

But he had to take care of Bernie.

As Bernie got to the chamber, she felt he confidence start to ebb. Frank had lingered on the stairs; he came up a few seconds after her, his face furrowed with concern.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Something might be wrong," he replied. "I couldn't see Joe in the living room. Give me a second: if Peter comes up here yelling, someone has to tell him what's going on."

He went to Cecie's room and tried the doorknob: unlocked and unblocked. He opened the door and peered in.

Cecie lay flat on her back, her head rolled to one side, the covers neatly smoothed over her. No one lay beside her. He peered around the door, taking in the room. No one kept watch in the night with unblinking eyes, and Cecie was probably the last person in the world to stow a Mecha in a closet.

He closed the door and went back to join Bernie.

"I don't see him," he told her.

"I hope that doesn't mean he went out to meet with someone," Bernie said.

"What can you do? They programmed him that way." Frank put his arm about her waist and drew her to him. "And I must admit, I'm programmed that way too, though I understand what 'forsaking all others' means." He kissed her check. With one hand, he tilted her face up and kissed her under the jaw. She pulled away.

"No, not yet, not yet. Please."

"Okay. But can we at least spend the night in the same room?"

"Well…okay." She took his hand and led him into the room.

Rain moved in over the land late that night. It fell softly at first, but it soon fell heavier, pouring from the sky in dense, soaking sheets. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Lightning flashed across the sky from the west to the east. The sky glowed as if on fire. Bolt after bolt crackled from sky to earth.

In his prison, Joe heard the crackling and rumbling. He sensed the air pressure drop sharply, along with the fierce tick-tick-tick within his own breast. The pain receptors in the "flesh" of his abdomen still fired and he felt the foreign object thrust through it to his locomotion actuator. He reached out to feel for the knob. He could just touch it with the very tip of his index finger, but he could not reach further to grasp the knob and turn it.

He shifted the weight of his upper torso so that he fell against the doorpost. He reached out and tested the knob. It was locked.

He unsealed his left wrist and drew out a small screwdriver. He tried to pick the lock with it, but that didn't work.

Back in Rouge City, Vautrin had curled up for a snooze in front of the terminal that carried the tracking information on all the units on the street and elsewhere. But something jolted him awake.

An alarm started peeping. He shook himself to get the last of the sleep out of his lanky frame and turned to the monitor to scan the grid.

J-O-4679, License # RC-12291973-882801:

Alert condition: Code 25

Alert condition: Code 212

"Damn," he muttered. "What kinda bad trouble you get yourself into now, Joe?" Breach of dermis integrity and immobilization of the locomotive actuator, he thought. He reached for the phone and told the automated system to dial Natterson, the chief tech. Westhillston, Massachusetts would be a bit of a hike, but he'd check the monorail schedule.

Once he got off the phone with Natterson, he drew in a deep breath. "Telephone: Mr. Raymond J. Flyte."

Flyte was so not gonna like to hear this.

A loud clap of thunder shook Cecie's room. She shocked into consciousness. She sat up, sensing something not right in her world. Her lips still tasted sweet with Joe's parting kiss, but her intuition picked up something vibrating in the taut air, despite the electricity that hummed around her.

She got up and crept downstairs to the living room, looking for a familiar pair of eyes, looked out of the shadows, warming at the sight of her.

No sight of Joe.

She went back upstairs and back to bed. Where could he be? It might be a simple case of his slipping out for another assignation with Allison. Had Diocletian found out what had happened behind his back? Was that what had happened?

A horrible image panned through her mind, of Joe's mangled body lying draped across the large, flat rock behind the Diocletians' house, his faceplate smashed in, the components torn from his torso.

She seemed to stand in a forest at night, a pale, greenish moon shining sickly through the gnarled treetops. She walked into a large clearing, with a declivity in the middle. Metallic parts and fragments lay piled in the hollow, gleaming dully in the wan radiance. She walked up to the heap and looked at it. She nearly recoiled when she found it was a heap of broken Mecha limbs and components.

She stared at the pile, frozen to the spot. She thought of the old black and white 2-D photos of the mass graves in a country called Poland where the murderous followers of a madman called Hitler had dumped the corpses of their victims.

She heard the bushes rustle. She looked up. Metallic and half-fleshed figures stepped out of the bracken: the vultures come to prey on the fallen of their kind.

"Stay back! Don't come any closer, any of you!" she cried. The figures stopped at the sound of her voice, the inexorable voice of the masters.

As a cloud passed over the moon, she jumped into the pile feet first, knee deep in components and snarls of fibers. She waded through the glittering, clinking heap. She threw aside metal legs and arms, tossed away faceplates she did not recognize.

Something gleamed in the dark, off to her left. She reached for it.

The cloud moved and a ray of moonlight fell over her find, glinting green off lightless eyes.

 _Hey Joe, whaddya know?_

She recoiled as if from a snake and sat back, hard, on the torso of another dead Mecha.

She looked at the faceplate again. The eyes were canted up, frozen in place, as if he had looked to heaven for mercy. The mouth hung open as if in a soundless cry of anguish or a final plea for clemency. She wanted to kiss those lips, but she knew they would fell colder than the mouth of an Orga corpse.

As she sank back on her haunches from utter shock, something shifted underneath her. A low click snapped the silence and music started to play:

"The moon may be high

But I can't see a thing in the sky…"

She jumped up, kicking at whatever it was to shut it off. Silence returned, then she looked down at what she had been sitting on.

It was Joe's torso, the garments torn open from top to bottom, a huge gash in the abdomen where something had been torn out.

She threw her head back and howled, a long, drawn out, ululating wail.

She awoke with a cry. She'd dozed off on the edge of the bed. She opened her eyes.

Dim gray daylight lit the room. Someone tapped on her door.

"Cecie, you all right in there?" Frank's voice asked.

"I'm okay," she said, getting up. She went to the door and opened it. Frank stood there, clad in the same shirt and pants he had worn the day before, which looked as if he'd slept in them. "I just had a nightmare…You wouldn't happen to know where Joe got to?"

"I was about to ask you that," he said.

She looked him up and down. "It still didn't happen, did it?"

He shook his head, but a slight smile played over his lips. "No, but at least she let me sleep next to her last night."

"The journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step: what did you do to get her to consent to that?"

"Okay, I'll admit I slipped her a mickey."

"She wasn't the only one: I think I got slipped one myself, and that mongrel Mick had something to do with it."

"Next time let the fiberhead mix the mimosa even if you're mad at him."

"I'll drink to that."

After morning prayers and Mass, Peter went to his room to collect his briefcase and his laptop. When he turned around, he found Cecie standing in the doorway, shoulders squared, hands slightly clenched on her hips, feet apart. She looked at him over the lenses of her glasses, never a good sign.

"Where's Joe?" she asked, point blank.

"What?"

"I have a feeling you and Diocletian know exactly where he is. That wasn't just exhaustion that floored me last night. Diocletian helped me out with a little additive to that mimosa, didn't he?"

"You'll have to ask him."

"I'm asking you: where is Joe?"

"He's where things like him belong so he can't get into any more trouble or cause any more adultery."

"That is not an answer. Where is Joe?"

"Go find your damnation yourself."

She went out with a flea in her ear, but she kept her head held high.

After breakfast, Cecie took Kip and Frank aside. "Did either of you see anything odd happen last night while I was asleep?"

"I was helping Phila with the dishes, so I'm afraid I'm no help," Kip said.

"Well, after Joe took you upstairs, Peter and Diocletian had their head together at the foot of the stairs, like they were plotting something," Frank said. "I didn't hear any more, I went out to find Bernie. I shoulda stopped them."

"That doesn't matter now," Cecie said. "What matters is finding Joe."

The three of them went upstairs single file.

"Joe?" she called. "Joe? Hey, Joe, where'd yah go?" They ranged down the hallway. "Joe? If you can hear me, let me know where you are."

Music dimly started to play behind the door of the broom closet. "Okay, we hear you," she said, heading for the door and trying it. Locked. The music switched off inside.

"I'll get the key, " Kip said.

Kip went down and came back with the key. He unlocked the door and opened it. No sooner did he have the door open, then Joe fell out of the closet on his side. He propped up his upper torso with his hands and dragged his lower half across the floor, clear of the closet.

"What happened to you, bro?" Frank said.

"I have heard of this happening to others of my kind, but I could never have perceived it occurring to me," Joe said, propping himself up on his elbow. "Your Messires Diocletian and Connelly have fitted me with a restraining bolt."

"Oh, no!" Cecie cried. She turned to Kip. "Can they do that? I thought restraints only worked on service droids."

"Same difference: they use the same kind of locomotion activator whether it's a street-sweeper droid or a lover-Mecha," Kip said. "Only difference is access. That's how it works: there's a pin inside the bolt that locks the actuator so he can't move."

"Can you get it out?" Frank asked.

"Probably. I have some mechanical know-how with these things. We'll have to get him out of here, though: there's no light for me to work in."

Frank took Joe under the legs—which stuck out straight, lacking their usual grace—while Kip took him under the arms. They carried him down the hall to Cecie's room and laid him on the bed

Kip unfastened the bottom of Joe's shirt and pushed it up and back.

A flat black knob as big around as Cecie's knuckle protruded from the middle of Joe's abdomen. The sight of this made Cecie fail to notice for a moment the lightly molded musculature around it: not quite "washboard abs", but not soft either. She let herself smile once the shock wore off; she'd never cared for heavy-muscled types.

"You'd better hold his hands, Cecie; these guys sometimes get a little weird if you're working on them," Kip said. "Oh, man!"

"What?" asked Frank.

"It's one of _those_."

"One of what?" Cecie asked.

"It's a Y-X bolt," Kip said. "Let me go find a Philips screwdriver."

While Kip went out, Cecie sat down on the mattress at Joe's head and took it onto her knees. She took one of his hands in hers; he covered it with his free one and tilted his face up to look at her.

"Poor baby, what did they do to you?" she asked, her voice soft and sweet, almost a coo of pathos.

"They have treated me as if I were a chattel," he said.

"Does it hurt?" she asked. She sensed, deep within him, the soundless tick of his damage alarm.

He glanced down at the knob. "It pains me not so much as it did at first." She watched a twinge come and go in his face. She reached down and stroked his synthetic flesh. He drew in the wall of his stomach and let out a small, half-suppressed laugh.

"Did that tickle?" she asked.

"It made my receptors forget to feel pain for the moment," he said.

"Way that Frank the Orga and Joe the Mecha are similar, number fifty-seven: they both have ticklish stomachs," Frank said, half humorous, half with a mock groan. "And I suppose I'd look like _that_ if I could ever remember to do my sit-ups."

The 11.30 monorail from Camden pulled into the depot of Westhillston. Two men, one in the gray coveralls of a tech, the other in a long gray cloak, got off and headed into the middle of the town, toward the Red Dragon Inn.

Kip came back a moment later with the Phillips screwdriver. "Frank, could you bring the lamp over here? There isn't enough light."

"Okay," Frank picked up the lamp from the bedside table and held it low over the bed, almost touching the mattress. Cecie put her free hand on Joe's brow, fingering his hair in a motherly, rather than a loverly manner.

Kip fitted the screwdriver into the scoring on the bolt head. "Now this is the hard part. I can never remember if it's turn left then right, or turn right then left to get these Y-X bolts out."

"Hey, Joe, can you remember how Diocletian turned the bolt when he stuck it into you?" Frank asked.

"I could not tell you. Peter had pushed my head back and he blocked my line of vision with his body."

"Figures," Cecie muttered.

"Guess I'll just have to do trial and error," Kip said. He turned the driver right and then left and carefully tried to pull the bolt free. Joe winced, arching his back. "Nope, must be left then right." He turned it right and drew the bolt out slowly.

Frank replaced the lamp. "Can you walk now, bro?" he asked.

"I shall be mobile again in but a moment," Joe replied.

The Mecha sat up slowly after a minute or two. Tentatively, he moved one leg, then the other. He shifted to the edge of the bed and stood up. He let go of Cecie's hand and walked the length of the room and back. He tried a few dance steps, a simple buck and wing. But something seemed missing; Cecie hoped it was just her imagination, or that something had to reset inside him.

"I'd better call your owner," she said.

"That will not be necessary," Joe said, tucking in his shirt and adjusting the skirts of his jacket. "He will know of it by now."

"Right, your damage alarm."

"If we leave you two alone, can you keep from doing anything that'll land us in more bad trouble with Peter?" Frank asked.

"We won't," Cecie said.

"Phila'll need me to help pack her stuff," Kip said, pocketing the bolt.

The two men went out. Frank started to close the door, then pretended to strike his forehead and left the door open.

The Master hadn't told her not to leave her hiding place. She detected no movement above. Because, as she discovered, she could move once more, she crept out of her corner in the basement and went above to investigate, and perhaps catch up with the Master.

Not finding anyone about the house, she scanned her small profile database, searching for his work address. Once she had accessed it, she consulted her internal map. Plotting a course, she left the house and set out in search of her Master.

Cecie put a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you for doing or not doing what?" he asked.

"For being so cold to you yesterday."

"Of course I can forgive this. You did not bring these woes upon us. And perhaps, eve had you not been cold to me, this trouble would have befallen me anyway."

"If only people could be as forgiving as you are," she said, burying her face in his shoulder. Joe encircled her with one arm; with the other hand, he caressed her head. "I wish I hadn't brought you here. I could have saved you a lot of trouble."

He shrugged gracefully. "If it had not suffered this indignity here, it might yet have happened in Rouge City. But I trust this visit has been well-worth the troubles, in all other respects."

She smiled at him, but something cold lingered in her eyes.

"I take this as the beginning of 'yes'."

To be continued…

Afterword:

Who's the stranger in the gray cloak? Will Frank and Bernie ever consummate the marriage? Will Cecie and Joe be able to patch things over? …And just who is the mysterious woman in the Diocletians' basement? Find out in Chapter X.

Literary Easter Eggs:

The Kurt Weill song—This is the last stanza of "The 'Sorry' Song", Marc Blitzstein's translation, modified slightly by yours truly (I know some German).

"the white crane spreads its wings—this is an actual T'ai Chi movement; I took it for a year, and I'm fairly proficient at it.

"'Look into the mirror of your soul'…"—I discovered the song "I Love You…I'll Kill You" (of which this is the second and last verse) by Enigma while I was drafting another fiction, and I promptly fell in love with it (It's now my second favorite song of theirs, after "Eyes of Truth", which was used in one version of the movie trailer for _The Matrix_ ). I was listening to it nonstop as I wrote this whole sequence, which explains the dark, somewhat disturbing quality to the sequence, that and the fact that I was having floaters of the bit in the movie _eXistenZ_ where Jennifer Jason Leigh has Jude Law pinned to the wall.

Restraining bolt—I swiped this, as I said, from _Star Wars_ (C3-P0 gets pinned with one), but since I'm not sure of the technology involved, I had to fake it. I imagine that, in the "A.I." universe, there has to be some way of immobilizing Mechas (for transport, et al.); I just hope they wouldn't be so horrible as this dandy little gadget. The design for it, as I envisioned it, came from an old pocket flashlight we had kicking around the house years ago. And the bolt-inserting scene is modeled somewhat after the scene in _The Matrix_ where the Agents plant the navel-penetrating "bug"—figurative gone literal—on Neo/Thomas Anderson.

"solemn sacramental reverence"—I had just been listening to, as a book-on-tape, the chapter entitled "Eros" in C.S. Lewis's _The Four Loves_ , in which he makes a case for the comic quality of romantic/sexual love in marriage, turning on ear the idea that martial sexuality has to be a dry, dull affair.

Joe's license number—the first set of digits is Jude Law's birthdate, while the second set of digits is the ff.n number of this story.

Cecie's nightmare—this is all that remains of a fanfiction that was supposed to cap off this series involving Cecie Martin, but it had such a downer ending I couldn't bear to publish it, but this image was so strong, I couldn't let it go.

Joe dragging himself across the floor—Compare this with the bit in the film _Gattaca_ with Joe's real life counterpart as a paraplegic dragging himself up a staircase. (And if you're reading this chapter, Sapphire Rose, this is the last cross-reference to other films of the green-eyed beauty for this chapter!)


	10. The Priest and the Procurer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

If it's not heat waves and allergies…it's doctor's appointments! In order to change my allergy meds back to something that I know worked for me, I have to go to an allergist, which I am not looking forward to. If I were a Mecha, my DAS would be set unusually high, so I'm not looking forward to allergy testing…But enough bitching. The loose ends from last chapter start to get tied off here, and I had a couple characters show up whom I never expected, one of whom is implied in the film, the other is seen for all of five rather tantalizing seconds…but I can't tell you more. Read it and find out.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I don't own the words to the song "Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison, either (though I _looove_ it!)

Chapter X

The Priest and the Procurer

Work kept Peter in town that day, so he went home for lunch. He later wished he hadn't.

He entered the kitchen to find Kip, Phila, Bernie, and Frank waiting for him, sitting around the table, bookending Cecie and that Mecha.

"What's going on?" Peter asked, trying to sound calmly curious.

Cecie stood up. To Peter's shock, the Mecha rose with her, perfectly functional, its hand resting on hers.

"You know exactly what's going on. You had a hand in it, didn't you? Diocletian brought you what you thought was an easy way to box Joe in."

"I couldn't have that…thing tramping around the town, seducing every woman it saw," Peter replied.

"But that didn't warrant treating him the way you did," Kip said.

"It was the only way I knew how, Diocletian suggested it."

"The bolts are really meant for service droids. You had to cut him to get it into him, and that's left him in pain," Kip said.

"It doesn't look like it's suffering."

"Watch his face long enough, and you'll see it," Cecie said.

As they spoke, the Mecha's face puckered with pain, then relaxed.

"Put yourself in his place: Imagine if you couldn't move because someone had shoved something through your navel," Cecie said.

"But it's coupled with every woman it's crossed paths with. It went after Bernie, it seduced Diocletian's wife—"

"Which was probably the first time in five years that she had someone handle her gently," Cecie said.

"So you're condoning his actions?"

"He doesn't know anything better than the dictates of his specific programming. He responded to Allison's loneliness, and she reciprocated to him, which only encouraged the kind of response he gave. He's like someone who's invincibly ignorant of any other moral code and he's not blessed with a fully free will. If Allison had left him alone or told him otherwise, he wouldn't have pursued her."

"Why did you bring him here?"

"I brought him here because he's my friend and I wanted to show him a little of my world; but there is a part of me that is seriously questioning my choice."

"That's good to hear; I'm glad to hear that you haven't been completely corrupted by…that town."

"Perhaps it has, but at least I admit it if it has. But what's the worse corruption: To be weak in some area and admit it, or to fail to admit your own weaknesses and be always pointing the finger at your neighbor's corruption? 'Take the plank from your own eye before you take out the speck in your brother's eye'."

"I've lived in Rouge City all my life, and I'm probably no more corrupt than Cecie, or you are," Kip said.

"So find another place to live."

"Nope, God wants me to live there and to be one of the honest men who could save Sodom come the judgment day."

"And that goes for me as well," Cecie said.

"If that's the case, then you, Phila, should seriously consider getting an annulment," Peter said.

Phila stood up, putting her hands through Kip's and Cecie's arms. "There's no valid grounds for it. I'm staying with him, wherever he lives."

"So you'd rather live in that hellmouth among those diabolical machines," Peter said, his eye on the Mecha's calm face. "You'd rather send your souls to hell in a handbasket."

"If you're gonna talk like that. I'd better confess," Bernie said. Frank put his arm about Bernie's shoulder, as if supporting her.

Peter braced himself for the worst. "What is it? No, don't tell me. I don't want to hear about your dallying with this…this mere machine."

"I haven't dallied with him…well, not much, just enough to learn about him the hard way," Bernie said, her voice shaking, but keeping a steady volume.

"So you'd rather surrender yourself to this creature's embrace than to your husband's?"

"No," she said with renewed conviction. "I've got my footing under me; I've learned my lesson."

"At least there's been less whoring going than I thought."

"No offence, Peter, but there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Frank said.

"And what would that be?"

"Why do you have to be such a mean-spirited, close-hearted, uncharitable son of a bitch?" Frank asked.

Peter could form no answer to that; he had no data available.

"The truth hurts when it comes up and grabs you by the throat," Cecie said.

"I don't have to take anything more from you. I want you all out of the house by midnight tonight. And don't expect a fond farewell tomorrow."

An odd glint came into Cecie's eye. She slipped her arms around the Mecha's neck from behind, draping herself over its back and regarding Peter over its shoulder.

"Aren't you afraid we might take advantage of this?" her voice had dropped to a throaty, lecherous drawl. "We've kept chaste every night, Joe and I. Once we're out from under your thumb, what's to keep us from going all the way?" She stroked the thing's cheek with one finger. It ogled her out of the corner of its eye as it slid one hand toward her thigh.

"Stop it!" Peter cried, looking away.

When he looked back, they had separated, as if they had never started pawing at each other.

But he realized something. The Mecha had not initiated this lubricid behavior: Cecie had. It hadn't even touched her until she had started groping it.

"It wasn't my idea, putting the restraining bolt on…your friend," Peter said. "I told Diocletian that Joe had gone astray the other night; he told me that…this thing had turned up at his house, that he suspected Allison had…been with it."

"But you let him come here with the bolt. You let him drug me to get me out of the way, because you knew I'd personally take you both apart, limb by limb, if I caught you messing with Joe. And you helped him insert the bolt, didn't you?" Cecie said.

"I helped pin…Joe to the wall to keep it still. I showed Diocletian the closet where we could stow it…him…whatever that thing is."

The Mecha turned its gaze to Peter and lifted its head. "Might I be permitted a word in my own defense?"

"Go ahead, say your piece."

"What I endured when your colleague Mr. Diocletian and you manhandled me last night defies description in your terms. I ask you in your case to think of what it would be like if you found yourself accosted by two superior beings who took away you ability to walk."

"I'm sorry, but I can't imagine that."

"Can't or won't?" Frank demanded.

"That's none of your business," Peter retorted.

"Or is it that you're afraid to think of an answer to Joe's statement because it means you'll have to readjust most of your thinking about him?" Cecie said.

Silence ensued for a whole minute. The only sound to be heard was first the refrigerator switching off, and the white noise radiating from Joe's torso.

The phone rang. They all jumped at the sound; even Joe cocked an ear toward it. Cecie started toward it, but Peter reached it first and answered it.

"If that's you, Allison, I'm not allowing this kind of—" He stopped and fell silent. His face turned pale. "Yes, you can speak to her." He covered the receiver with one hand, shaking slightly. "Cecie, it's…it's Joe's owner."

Cecie took the handset and inwardly offered a wordless prayer for strength.

"Hello?"

"This is Raymond Flyte. Are you Cecie Martin?" The voice on the other end had a gruff, raspy edge to it, but it was not an unpleasant voice.

"I'm her."

"And you hired one of my Mechas?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anything about why his damage alarm has gone off?"

"Yes, two men I know, Peter Connelly and Seamus Diocletian tried putting a restraining bolt on him."

"I'll be coming up later this evening with a tech to fetch him. I'm afraid you will have to ask your two friends to come forward and claim their responsibility."

"I can put Mr. Connelly on, if you like."

"I would indeed, thank you."

She held out the handset to Peter. He took it from her, his fingers hesitant.

"Yes…yes, I'm Peter Connelly…I really can't talk right now…Well, I suppose tonight at seven, or would you rather discuss this over dinner? …No? well, all right….We'll see you then, er, Mr. Flyte, sir."

He set the receiver back on the console, his face gone utterly gray. "Thanks to you, I won't be having my lunch here," he said. With that, he walked to the front door and went out, but not so confidently as usual."

"We got him scared," Frank said.

"But what a Phyrric victory," Cecie said.

She found the store easily enough, but she decided it would be too obvious if she went in by the front: too many people coming and going, so she went around to the back.

"Hey, Jacobi! We're gonna need another two cases of Wheaties!" Hennessey yelled the length of the back room of the store to Carton, who was loading cases of paper towels onto a small pallet.

"I gotta get these paper towels to aisle 12!" Carton yelled back.

"Take 'em with you!" Hennessey ordered back, walking away, heading for the meat cooler.

Carton decided to take the cases of paper towels first and come back for the Wheaties. Cunningham, the head grocery clerk, had asked for the towels, so maybe he could smooth things over. He'd just been past the Wheaties ten minutes before, so unless a football team had come through…

He came back towing the empty pallet, which he levered off the pallet jack and propped against the wall near the cardboard compactor.

"That looks like hard work," said a dulcet alto nearby.

He looked up. What he saw, not more than five feet away made his hand go weak. He dropped the pallet jack with a resounding _clank_.

At first, the clerk part of his brain thought a customer had lost her way in the labyrinthine back room. But the lecherous part of his brain (by far the larger) knew no customer would dress like _that_ , not in this town, anyway.

She stood a whole head taller than him, a curvaceous, full-breasted dame in a sleek, black cat-suit. Add to this chin-length black hair like a soft hank of silk and eyes like blue sapphires sparkling invitingly under her long lashes.

Then he noticed the odd, plastic look of her skin. Golly, what _was_ she? Joe the Mecha's twin sister? Where'd she come from? These things didn't exactly grow on trees and she looked a whole lot better than the heaps of junk he'd had in Amherst.

"Yeah, uh, it is," he said, fumbling to pick up the pallet jack.

"You need refreshing after all that…Carton?" she eyed his nametag.

"Well, er, yeah. Listen, I'm going on lunch break so, uh, lemme scan out and I'll meetcha back here in five minutes, 'kay?"

"Anything you say," she said, with a smile that made his stomach rub the inside of his shirt.

He couldn't get to the office up front fast enough, and the scanner took too long. Who needed lunch when you could have _that_!

Cecie set to work packing her bags, with Joe looking on from the foot of the bed for moral support.

"There must be places of lodging in this locality," he said.

"I thought of going to the Red Dragon Inn at the center of town. I've been in the dining room a few times, but I've never been upstairs: hope you like colonial retro furniture."

"It has its aesthetic value."

She folded up a pair of pants and put it in her suitcase. "You know, there's other ties that got cut this week because of you."

He cocked his head. "There are?"

"Yeah. I think I've finally cut home ties. Westhillston doesn't seem like home any more. Rouge City's my home now. Or maybe…gosh, I shouldn't think this?"

"What should you not think?"

"I'm thinking…my home is where you are. And after all the trouble you've cost me, part of me does not want to admit to that."

"Was all the trouble worth it?"

"Maybe. I'm still angry with you, but not as much." She sat on the edge of the suitcase and told him about her first dream, of knocking him up on the couch.

He took it in stride. "Similar things have been enacted upon me. You could not force me, since I would already have quiesced," he replied, calmly.

She reached up and kneaded the waist of his shirtfront with her knuckles. "But you've got enough troubles—not that I would really do that to you." She got up and went to the chest of drawers, taking an armload of jerseys from an open drawer. "So what went through your processors when you were stuck in that closet?"

"I hoped you knew where I had got to and that you could get me out. I kept my brain occupied: recalling all the poems I have learned. But of course my pain receptors still functioned."

"Can't you shut them down?"

"I cannot. If I could not sense pain, I could not sense pleasure."

She stowed the shirts in the suitcase. "Just like us," she noted out loud.

Hennessey went looking for Carton and the cases of Wheaties, but he couldn't find him. He went to the lunchroom in the far corner, but he couldn't find the runt there either.

Carton had found a nook for himself and "Josephine" the Mecha up on the catwalk above the meat department. It wasn't the coziest place, but no one would find them there.

Cecie went out to get a few odds and ends for the trip home: a toner cartridge for her feather weight printer, some dental floss, and a couple bars of Lindt's dark chocolate.

"Too bad you can't eat: this is the best chocolate in the world," she told Joe on their way out of the store.

"I shall take your word for it, then."

She knew Diocletian's eyes were on them as they walked past him on the way out. She darted a glance at Joe, who kept his eyes focused ahead, but as soon as they got outside, the look in his eyes changed to an "I-did-it-better-than-you-can" look.

Off to her left, Cecie spotted the Three Gray Sisters, as she'd started mentally calling Mildred and her cronies. Cecie studied the chrysanthemums and pumpkins on the tables in front of the store.

"There she is with _it_ now," Mildred said.

"Look at how close it's standing to her," Clara pointed out.

"It's a wonder it doesn't start pawing at her before our very eyes," Winifred said.

"They really aren't standing _that_ close," Mildred said.

"They might not be now, but when they're alone they're probably all over each other," Winifred said.

"And to think we all thought she'd found her intended!" Clara sighed.

"Did you hear about Allison Diocletian? She actually sent for it on night," Winifred said.

"Oh my!" Mildred cried.

"If Shay's smart, he'll divorce her for that and have her hospitalized. Any married woman who fools around with one of _those_ should be sent straight to the psychiatric ward," Clara declared.

"It's looking at us!" Mildred gasped.

Cecie looked up. Joe had innocently turned his gaze towards the trio of old ladies.

"I'll talk to you later, Mildred; I'd better get home before the milk spoils," Clara said.

"And I'd better get home too, and find out what I missed on the show,' Winifred added. The two hurried away, pushing their carriages a little too quickly.

Joe looked at Cecie, his eyes snapping with amusement.

"Go on, turn the charm on her, Joe," she said.

Joe winked at her. He turned to look full on at Mildred, his cool eyes warming ever so slightly, his mouth curving in an ever so sultry smile. Hands in pockets, he took a step toward her.

Mildred backed away, grinning back with nervous delight, which gave way to nerves. She nearly tripped over her shopping basket on wheels in her haste to get going. He turned back to Cecie.

"They shall trouble us no more," he said.

"I really gotta run," Carton told the Mecha-woman.

"So soon?" she asked seductively.

"Yeah, I gotta get back to work. But lemme tell yah, that was way better than a sandwich," he said.

"I was built to satisfy," she said.

"Eyeglass wipes," Cecie struck her forehead. "Do I dare go back in?"

"You speak often of facing your fears and your enemies," Joe said.

"Now it's your turn to get motivational."

They went back inside. Out of the corner of her eye, Cecie spotted Carton Jacobi heading for the office. His shirt-jacket looked crumpled and his tie was knotted clumsily.

"What's Carton up to now? Is it me, or does he look freshly rutted?" she said in an undertone.

Joe watched Carton passing by, until the small young man vanished behind a display. He looked at Cecie.

"It is hard to say, from looking at him from this distance," he said. "But he has the look of a young man who has but recently enjoyed the caresses of a woman."

On the way back, Cecie stopped over at the rectory of St. Edith's; she had to talk to Father Kunstler. Fortunately, the pastor was in; he let them both into his office.

She explained the situation to the priest as briefly as possible.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Peter has Father Slope up to the house tonight to ban me with bell, book, and candle," she concluded.

"So you want me to come up tonight to stop him," Kunstler said.

"Yes, unless it would be too much trouble."

"It wouldn't. I suppose I can play white knight for the both of you," he said, smiling wryly.

"I have been compared to a knight," Joe said. "But do they protect each other?"

"Of course, especially if the one in trouble is wounded," Kunstler said.

"And he is wounded," Cecie said, her hand on Joe's shoulder, stroking it as if to comfort him.

Supper was a coldly quiet affair. Joe had been banned from sitting with them. Frank tried to dispel the gloom with his usual crazy chatter, but he couldn't drive away the clouds any more than he could tell the rain to fall up.

Just after they finished, the doorbell rang. Phila and Georgette both jumped and started up to get it. Phil got to the door first.

"Oh, Father Kunstler, good evening," she said.

"Hello, Phila."

"What brings you here? I thought Father Slope was coming."

"Cecie asked me to come up and clarify a few things. Father Slope had an unexpected call at the last minute, so I'm afraid he couldn't come."

Cecie felt a bubble of relief rise to the surface of her mind and her blood ran less hot.

Phila led Father Kunstler into the living room; Peter went to join him as Phila came out to help Georgette start the dishes.

Cecie hovered in the hallway, breathing deeply, trying to get up her courage. Joe at her side put his hand in hers.

"You always speak of facing your enemies," he said in her ear.

"I know. But I'm having a hard time living up to my own tenet."

He put both his hands on her shoulders and kneaded her flesh, slowly, deeply. "I cannot fear as you can, but I will face this with you."

She put both her hands on his. He leaned his face close to the side of her head and kissed her behind the ear.

"I'm ready," she declared. They separated and went into the living room.

"Here are the culprits now," Peter said.

"I don't think they're so culpable as to merit that moniker," Kunstler said. "Cecie couldn't have foreseen all that happened, and I greatly doubt she intended this kind of uproar."

"The only uproar I intended was shaking people up a little. I never intended the trouble with Allison," she said, sitting down on one end of the couch, Joe at her side.

The doorbell rang again. Phila came through the room on her way to answering it, but Kip got one step ahead of her.

"Oh, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Diocletian," they heard him saying.

Kip returned with the Diocletians. Shay kept his grip on Allison's arm; Cecie got up from the couch and took a seat on the raised hearth of the fireplace, opposite the couch. Joe followed her and sat down beside her. He eyed Allison, but she did not look at him; he turned his gaze to Cecie instead.

"Cecie, if it were possible to ban someone from a town, I'd see to it that you never set foot in Westhillston again," Shay declared.

"Shay, please be sensible," Allison pleaded.

"Not a word from you," Shay snapped.

"I didn't intend for this to happen," Cecie said.

"That's what happens when you consort with things like _that_ ," Shay said. "If you ever try to get another job, don't expect to use me as a reference."

"I even tried to tell Joe not to go near Allison, but he has a mind of his own."

"How can you say that thing has a mind?" Peter demanded.

"He has a simple logic processor, so in a sense, he can think," Cecie replied.

"I imagine Aquinas would be fascinated with the way these things' minds work," Kunstler said. "Joe, can I ask you a few questions?"

"You may, Father Kunstler, I will respond as best as I am able to," Joe replied.

"You can choose to pursue a woman or not, can you?"

Joe processed this for a few moments. "To some extent I can choose to pursue her or not to. I may find a woman attractive, but I can decide not to pursue her attentions and so offer her mine if I receive more data about her that would make the encounter less than ideal for either of us."

"So you have some freedom of volition?"

"I have no 'free will' as you have, but I am free to move within the parameters of my specific task."

The bell rang again. Peter looked at Cecie, then at the rest of the gathering.

"This must be _him_ ," Peter said.

"Who?" Shay asked.

"The owner of _that_ ," Peter said, rising and pointing at Joe.

"Oh no," Allison murmured. Shay gripped her arm even tighter.

Peter went out into the hallway. Cecie got up, following him, but holding back. Joe followed her. In the hallway, he put a hand on her arm.

"They need have no concern: he is not what they would anticipate."

Carton got out around seven. After he scanned out, he headed for the back room, hoping "Josephine" was still there, waiting for him.

Sure enough, she was exactly where he had left her earlier.

"Hey, you waited for me," he said.

"You said you would need me."

"But don't you, like, belong to someone?"

"I do belong to someone, to Mr. Shay Diocletian."

"Golly."

"What makes you look surprised?"

"Well, I work for Diocletian. I mean, he's such a cold bastard, I can't see him with someone—something like you."

She smiled. "Could anyone see someone like you with something like me?"

He grinned. "Now that's easier to imagine; I probably made better use of you."

Her smile grew sweeter, more seductive. "Perhaps you did."

"Maybe I oughta bring you back to him—oh, damn!"

"What makes you curse?"

"Diocletian's out visiting someone, Connellys, I think. Maybe I should meet up with him there."

"As you see fit."

A man of average height and build stepped into the Connelly's entryway, clad in an ankle-length cloak of iron-gray satin over a conservative dark blue suit. He took off the wide-brimmed black fedora he wore, uncovering a silvery mane of hair, brushed back but naturally tousled. His thin face with its sharp features and medium blue eyes showed some care lines about the forehead and mouth, but it had an oddly youthful air. He might have been sixty or he might have been a hundred. His whole calm, patrician air suggested a wealthy businessman: he looked nothing like anyone's preconception of a procurer.

"Mr. Flyte, may I take you hat and coat, er, cloak?" Georgette offered.

"Yes, thank you," he said in a gruff but pleasant voice, not a deep voice like many gruff voices. He unfastened the neck of his cloak and let Georgette take it.

Joe emerged from the shadows of the hallway. His eyes met the newcomer's and brightened a little.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" Flyte asked.

"Lucky for us both you came here," Joe said, stepping closer.

"Mr. Flyte, I'm sorry about all this; I'll pay any damages," Cecie said.

Flyte waved it aside with a slightly gnarled hand. "You weren't responsible; I'm here to speak with those who were."

"I guess that would be Mr. Diocletian and I," Peter said, folding his arms over his chest as he led them into the living room.

Cecie would remember for the rest of her life the looks of consternation on the faces of the gathering, as soon as Flyte stepped into the room. But more strikingly, Father Kunstler seemed not surprised at all.

"Hiya, Ray."

"Hello, Gerard."

Peter looked from Father Kunstler to Flyte. "You two…know each other?"

"We're actually related through a marriage," Kunstler explained.

"My niece married Gerard's younger brother," Flyte added.

"But, doesn't that bother you, Father?" Stephen piped up.

"It does a little, but I'm not here to judge anyone, I'm only here to understand them," Kunstler explained. "Besides, his commodity isn't always about sex."

This made the round of introductions a little easier, but Cecie could still see most of the Westhillstonites pulling back from Flyte as if he were one of his own Mechas

"And speaking of business," Flyte said, "What's this all about? I get a dermal integrity breach and a Mecha immobilization alarm, but I find Joe upright and walking."

Peter and Shay looked at each other, but Shay spoke up first.

"This…this _thing_ was with my wife, so Peter asked me if I knew of any way to restrain it."

"So he told me he knew where he could obtain a restraining bolt and that he could install it."

Flyte looked around. "Does anyone have it?"

Kip stood up and reached into his pocket. He took out the bolt and held it out to Flyte. The older man took it delicately.

"A Y-X bolt," he said. "No wonder his alarm went off. You don't put these on Gen. 5's like Joe."

"Why not?" Shay asked.

"Because you really cannot put this through the opening on their locomotion actuator without opening them up. You put it through his navel?"

Shay dropped his gaze to the floor, like a schoolboy caught in the act. "Yeah. How else was I supposed to know?"

"That explains the dermal integrity breach."

"It deserved it! It trampled all over our morals!" Peter cried.

Flyte fixed Peter with a calm look. "We're not talking about that just yet, we're talking about damaging property."

"If you follow that line of reason to its logical conclusion, then we Orgas deserve a lot more for our sins than this Mecha does for his actions," Kunstler said. "We know what we're doing, but he doesn't."

"Enough theology! It deserved to be damaged," Shay snarled. "It f-d my wife!"

"Could be your wife did him. And if you'd treated her better, maybe she would not have felt like she had to utilize Joe's services to get the solace she needs," Flyte said, keeping his calm. Cecie noticed he didn't blink much as he talked, which gave his face something of that slightly fixed look of a Mecha's default expression.

"How do you know that?"

Flyte looked from Shay to Allison, who sat trying not to cower from Shay's outburst. "My business caters to lonely women; I see a lot of unsatisfied faces. Allison's is one of them." He turned to Joe. "Let me see the damage, son."

Joe took off his jacket and unfastened his shirt, uncovering himself to just below his wound. Peter reached out to cover Phila's and Bernie's eyes, but he found them already looking away discreetly.

"It's not an appetizing sight anyway," Cecie said. "I've seen it already."

Flyte stooped down gracefully and probed the hole in Joe's abdomen with a fingertip. Joe winced once, then his face relaxed.

"Looks nasty, but it is not as bad as I expected," Flyte said. "I brought Natterson up to take care of it."

"Thank goodness you did; he has a most care full hand."

"You can close your shirt now, present company wouldn't want to see any more of you than it has to," Flyte said. He straightened up and turned back to Peter and Shay. "All told, I say you owe me five hundred NB."

"We can't afford that!" Peter cried. "It's more than it's worth!"

"You can each pay two hundred fifty," Flyte continued, unfazed.

"This thing caused priceless moral damage to my household, worth a lot more than I caused to that _thing_ ," Shay snapped.

"You injured one of my employees," Flyte said. "You're a businessman, Diocletian. You pay for health insurance for your employees. I have to pay a tech to repair my damaged Mechas. Granted, this is minor, but you saw him wince."

" _That_ caused him pain?"

"You would feel pain in an open wound. Of course he has no blood, but that does not mean the damage does not cause him residual distress. It's put there to encourage his kind to repair themselves where possible or to seek aid."

"But I am _not_ paying for this…this house wrecker! Cecie can pay for it!"

Someone knocked on the door.

"Now who's this?" Peter demanded, going to the door to answer it.

When Peter opened the door, Carton stuck his face in. Seeing Mrs. Diocletian, his eyes got wide.

"Hey, uh, Shay. You, er, know anything about, um, this Mecha out here?"

Shay's face went pale. "What Mecha out where?"

"Come outside. I, uh, found her in the back room. She was lookin' for you."

Shay jumped up and rushed outside. Peter followed him, then Cecie and Joe. The rest of the gathering straggled out after them, into the front yard.

"Oh…my…GOD!" Stephen cried, rubbing his eyes and looking again.

Out on the lawn paced a sleek female figure clad all in lustrous black fitted to her voluptuous form. She turned her over-glossy face to Shay, who came down the lawn toward her. Cecie knew when he'd seen the stranger: Shay stopped dead in his tracks.

"So that's where he got the restraining bolt," Cecie said.

Allison caught up with her spouse and tapped him on the arm. "Does this have anything to do with the odd wall in your office downstairs?" Shay did not respond.

"Not a bad-looking model, might be a Simulate City JN-8523, but I'd have to double-check," Flyte said, reaching into his jacket and taking out a pocket scriber.

"Shay, what's the matter?" Peter asked. He looked right at the beautiful stranger. "Oh…my….!"

"I didn't think…How could she have…? How long have you…?" Shay sputtered.

The female Mecha sashayed up to her Master. She tilted her head as she looked up at him, her hair swaying slightly.

"Hello, Master," she said.

Shay sat down on the grass very hard.

"So you've been hiding this thing under our roof all this time?" Allison said, turning Shay's face to hers.

"Man, I thought she was foolin' me when she said she belonged to you, boss," Carton said.

"I only got it to help me relax…I didn't mean to…"

"In that case, this puts the incident of Tuesday night in a whole different perspective," Father Kunstler said. "And it explains why you've been so hard on Allison since. Your own guilt got to you when you found out she had done something similar."

"But at least it wasn't not like hiding it in the basement from us," Allison said.

Shay nodded, his eyes swimming, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. He bent his head and started to cry, noisily.

"We're being overrun by these diabolical machines!" Peter cried.

"It's only what we Orgas use them for that makes them so," Father Kunstler said.

Allison hesitated, then put her hands on Shay's heaving shoulders and held him.

None of the Orgas except Cecie and Frank noticed the she-Mecha looking up at Joe.

"Hey there, handsome, you new in town?" she asked.

Joe's blankly incredulous face slowly gave way to a slyly seductive smile; flipping back his coat tails, he strode slowly up to her.

"I have only been within its limits for three weeks, so you might say that of me."

She looked him up and down, circling him. "Nice jacket. I wouldn't mind getting to know better the fellow underneath it."

He watched her with equal interest. "Perhaps you may soon be able to, but before that, alas, I have a prior commitment: I have a wound which needs tending."

"Maybe I can take care of it for you."

"It is not the sort of wound you could heal. But perhaps you could help ease the pain memories."

"Anything you want, fella."

"What is your name?"

"I don't have one," this said matter of factly.

"So gorgeous a creature deserves a name."

"Just as I thought, a JN-8523," Flyte said.

"Jane: you shall be called Jane."

"Nice name. What's yours?"

"Gigolo Joe, at your service, but you may just call me Joe."

"Don't look now, but I think our boy's one wish is coming true," Frank said, nudging Cecie.

"Virtual hormones on the rise," Cecie said, fighting the pang in her chest.

"Tell you gentlemen what: I can waive the five hundred NB, just let me have the JN-8523 and we'll be even. That will get her out of the way so you, Mr. Diocletian, can patch things over with your wife, and everyone's happy," Flyte proposed.

"Take the damned Mecha," Diocletian said, throwing up his hands and getting up.

"I know of a good marriage counselor you can talk to," Father Kunstler said.

"I'd like that," Allison said, looking from the procurer to the priest.

"Then I'll take her back to my hotel; I'll come by your house in the morning for the paperwork," Flyte said.

"You can take this one with you as well, while you're at it," Peter said, pointing at Joe.

"I'll have him up in an hour: where are you staying?" she asked.

"At the Red Dragon Inn," Flyte said.

"I'm just going there anyway: I'll be there."

"I know you will. Jane?"

"Yes?"

"I'm your new master now. Could you come with me?"

"Sure thing?" the she-Mecha.

Flyte took her by the arm; over his shoulder, he added to Cecie, "One hour."

"We'll be there," she promised, her chest tightened.

Flyte turned and walked down the drive, leading Jane, who tried to press herself closer to him.

"Do you want me to come over for a while?" Father Kunstler offered to Shay and Allison."

"Yeah, yes," Shay said.

"Please, we need you," Allison said. She and Kunstler helped Shay up off the ground and led him down to their cruiser.

Joe stood gazing down the slope toward the retreating shadows of Flyte and Jane.

"Hey, Joe," Cecie said, nudging him. His face had gone totally blank, which she realized was the closest thing to a look of dismay as he could come by. "You still got me."

"Yeah, you'll see her soon enough," Kip said.

"Pretty woman, walkin' down the street,

Pretty woman, the kind"—er-"he'd like to meet,

Pretty woman…he don't believe you,

You're not the truth,

No one could look as good as you…" Frank sang, in a very bad impersonation of Roy Orbison. Bernie started laughing almost hysterically.

"That's too funny, a Mecha with a crush on another Mecha," Phila said, laughing in spite of herself.

"That should make you happy, Peter," Kip said. "Now he won't be eyeing Bernie."

"Wonder if this means he's thinking' of going off the street," Frank said. "Watch out, Joe; if Flyte ever finds out she's having a little Joe, y' might have to marry her."

"That could never come to pass," Joe replied, but a shade of amusement colored his voice.

Cecie headed inside and upstairs to collect her bags. Joe followed her up. She didn't look at him as they entered her room. "Well, that resolves some issues," she said. "But in other ways, it's just starting. And don't you start about _her_."

He stepped in front of Cecie and tilted her chin up. She tried to drop her gaze, but it was too late: they looked into each other's eyes.

"She is not here now."

"Out of sight, out of mind. Or is it 'When you're not near the one you love, love the one you're with'?" She pulled out of his touch and picked up the larger bag. He took it from her, which left her with the smaller, lighter one.

"You still fell jealous."

"I know I shouldn't…but the way she looked at you."

"You know she was only following her programming."

"And why was Frank getting so crazy about her and you?"

"He asked me one night if I had ever enjoyed the favors of a female of my species. I told him that I have not, that no she-Mecha has ever reciprocated when I showed them any interest."

"Until tonight."

They met up with Frank and Bernie and Kip and Phila in the upstairs hallway.

"Well, shall we six sybarites make our escape before Mr. Puritanical sics the dogs on us?" Kip said.

"Yeah, let's us take our riotous living someplace more congenial," Frank said, pretending to reach down inside the front of Bernie's blouse. She poked him gleefully.

"Joe and I have to be up there in less than an hour, so I guess we'd better scurry," Cecie said.

They trooped down to the front hallway, where Peter waited for them.

"I don't want you to think I'm throwing you out," he said.

Cecie almost spat back, 'It's a little late for that!', but she replied, "I guess we wore out our welcome."

"Maybe it's for the best that it all happened this way: maybe there's no other way it could have come to light," Phila said.

"You told me I should reshape some of my thinking; maybe you should consider that yourself," Peter said.

"If you did so yourself, you might come to realize that you are not the victims of things like me," Joe said, with unusual conviction. "We are the victims of you."

He turned to Cecie and with a flourish of his hand, proffered her his arm. She took it just as grandly, holding her head high. Together they swept out through the front door.

Concluded in the next chapter…

Literary Easter Eggs:

Hennessey—I based this character on a VERY bossy assistant manager in the store where I used to work; Cunningham, who is only a name here, is based on his diametric opposite, another asst. mgr., who was like the older brother I would love to have.

Red Dragon Inn—Based this on the Red Lion Inn of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, although I have never actually stayed there. I just liked the name and the look of the place.

Lindt's chocolate—Another fake product placement (the placement, not the product), I'm of the same opinion as Cecie, that it's the world's best chocolate (Now I've made myself hungry for a chocolate fix).

"I'm only here to understand"—This is a slightly modified quote from French author George Bernanos's novel _Diary of a Country Priest_ , which IMNSHO, is the best Catholic novel of all time. I try to use his compassionate outlook on human nature as a model in my own writing.


	11. Keepin' the Customers Satisfied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

One of _Those_ in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I wrote this chapter with tears in my eyes. I couldn't bear to finish it. I wrote the last words in the morning Friday/Saturday, then I laid aside the pencil, and wept ("Are those happy tears?"). But back to our note…Who's Raymond Flyte? Do Frank and Bernie ever get cozy? …And does Cecie still want Joe in her life? Read on and find out.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I don't own the Simon and Garfunkel song "Keep the Customers Satisfied", nor do I own Merchant Ivory, either (I just like the name).

Chapter XI

Keepin' the Customers Satisfied

Kip drove the five of them to the Red Dragon Inn, a huge, rambling Victorian building with a wide, pillared veranda out front, its windows warmly lit from within.

"I used to dream about staying here," Bernie said.

"Did you ever dream about staying here with your special someone?" Frank asked.

"I always saw myself going into the convent," Bernie said.

Cecie had kept quiet all the way over; her cocky-triumphal attitude had vanished. Joe kept his hand on her shoulder the whole time, but even she felt her flesh grow cold under his touch.

Frank carried Bernie up the veranda steps, but that unfortunately meant the others had to pitch in to help carry the Sweitzes' baggage.

The trouble didn't stop: at the front desk, Cecie discovered her room had been double-booked and someone else had taken it.

"We can give you a refund," the clerk said.

"That doesn't solve the problem: I still need somewhere to stay," Cecie argued.

"Hey, you can share our room," Kip offered.

"Nonsense, you need your privacy," a gruff, but not unpleasant voice said at the edge of their circle.

Cecie looked over her shoulder. Mr. Flyte stood behind them. Joe eyed him a little hesitantly, as if to say, 'So soon?'

"You need a room? You can share mine, Suite 102. Natterson and I are rattling around in it, and even with Joe back, we'll still have the extra space," Flyte offered.

Phila looked a little shocked. But that soon went away.

"I really shouldn't, I've caused you enough trouble," Cecie demurred.

"Nonsense. I don't get enough chances to help damsels in distress," Flyte said, grinning with crooked innocence.

"Well, thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll see you in a little while." With that, he went upstairs.

"Lucky for us he offered to share his room," Joe said to Cecie.

"I was thinking that myself." She turned to Frank. "What room are you in?"

"Suite 104; we'll be neighbors," he grinned, scooping up Bernadette again.

The two teenaged bellhops—Cecie knew they were the manager's sons—carried the bags up to their rooms. Kip and Phila had one of the cheap rooms up in the attic, so they lingered on the mezzanine floor with the others, while the older of the two bellhops went upstairs with their bags.

"I guess we'll see you in the morning," Kip said to Frank. "You be good to her, now, 'cause if I hear any complaints from her, I'll clonk you one."

"Don't worry: she'll get the very best from me," Frank said, grinning wickedly. Bernie jolted as he'd pinched her and slugged him gently.

"Go with God," Phila said.

Frank's face relaxed and took on an oddly reverent look. "Yes, we will." With that, he adjusted Bernie in his arms and went into their room. The door closed behind them.

A second later, the door popped open and Frank's bare arm emerged, the gilt lettered "Do Not Disturb" sign in his hand. He hung it on the knob, then retreated inside.

"Well, Frank and Bernie are all set," Kip said. "We'd better get upstairs." To Joe he added, "I guess we won't be seeing you till we're back in Rouge City. You take care of yourself and take care of Cecie."

"I shall do my utmost in that regard," Joe replied.

"Not too much," Phila said.

"I won't let him," Cecie said, as the Langiers went upstairs.

Joe knocked on the door of Suite 102. The door rattled and opened. Flyte, in his shirtsleeves, his collar open, looked out.

"Thirty-nine minutes and twenty seconds to spare," he said, stepping aside and letting them enter.

"Thirty-nine minutes and five seconds, rather," Joe said. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Flyte, but you watch must have slowed."

"Thus with Orgas and our watches," Flyte said.

"Mr. Flyte, you really don't have to let me stay here, I've caused you enough trouble," Cecie protested.

Flyte held up his hands. "I am notorious for being too easy on damsels in distress. I could see where that would lead, so I didn't want you to get tossed out."

"And had she not already have arranged for lodgings, I would have plead with you to give her shelter," Joe said.

Flyte smiled indulgently. "I know you would have, so I beat you to it, son." He relaxed his face and reached for something on the table just inside the door. "But we'd better get your damages repaired before it goes any longer." He picked up a four-foot length of silvery chain that clinked metallically. Noticing the cuffs on the ends, Cecie realized what it was. Without bending down, Flyte fastened one cuff to his ankle.

"Joe, give me you foot, please?" Flyte asked.

Joe shifted his weight onto his left leg and, with a danseur's grace, raised his right leg, bent, knee pointing to the ceiling. He unfolded his limb; Flyte fastened the other cuff, this one padded, around the Mecha's ankle.

"We have everything ready, Natterson?" Flyte asked, heading for the larger bedroom, Joe following dutifully. Cecie brought up the rear.

A lean, middle-aged man in gray coveralls with a headlamp on a strap around his head had set up an assortment of tools on a folding table beside the bed, a massive four-poster which dominated the room.

"All set, Mr. Flyte," the tech said. "Hey, Joe, you can get a load off your feet."

Joe took off his jacket and neatly folded it before he laid it on the foot of the bed. He started to undo his shirt all the way, but Natterson unfastened the bottom of it.

"Not in front of the young lady," Flyte warned. "She might enjoy it too much."

"You read my mind, Cecie said.

Joe sat down on the bed; Natterson pushed him down gently and reached up to switch on the headlamp. He reached for a small computer with a sensor on a catheter, which lay on the table. With his other hand, he pressed a release switch on Joe's "breastbone", in and back.

A seam across Joe's middle cracked into visibility, then with a soft whirr, the seam opened, uncovering the components underneath. Natterson fitted the catheter into a dock on the locomotion actuator

"I couldn't help noticing the chain," Cecie said.

"I'd explain why, but not in front of Joe." Flyte darted an ironic look to her. "Did you expect me to put a restraining bolt on him?"

"No, I hoped you wouldn't."

"I'm a charter member of an organization trying to ban the use of restraining bolts, Flyte said, drawing a chair from the desk to the foot of the bed and proffering it to her. She sat down and slipped her arm across the footboard.

Joe turned his face toward her, giving her a serene smile and slid his hand across the covers to hers.

"And," Flyte said, continuing. "I will admit that I had an ulterior motive inviting you here: a lot of Mechas get very strange when we have to do repairs. Having someone he trusts nearby helps keep him calm."

"I've already held his hand when Kip took out the bolt."

"Good thing he was there: he's done a few weld jobs for me. He has the touch these creatures need." To the tech, he added, "How are we doing?"

"We lucked out: no damage," the tech said, unplugging the computer. He reached for a tube of silicon fitted into a dispenser that looked almost like a small glue gun and turning the lower half of the dermis of Joe's abdomen inside out, set about sealing the hole in Joe's navel.

"I really caused more trouble than was worth your while," Cecie said.

"No more of that," Flyte growled good-naturedly. "It was beyond your control. Besides, it couldn't have involved anyone better than you. Joe has always spoken highly of you, and he has never come to harm in your company. In some ways you've helped him develop as a being."

"I have?" She didn't doubt it.

"You have explained to him some of the quirks of human nature, you saved his brain during the Rouge City Chain Saw Massacree. I think, if he could play favorites, you'd be one of his favorite clients. When we told him you'd hired him for three weeks, his eyes took on a brighter glow than usual."

"I believe it," she said. "At times, he's so human you forget what he is. More human than human: sensitive, gentle, sweet-natured, vulnerable." She reached out with her free hand and stroked Joe's hair; his face softened and he nestled his head into her palm.

"Most people don't realize it, but a lot of Gen Fives liked Joe here need human affection. It helps them function better."

"I figured that out after the first six months I lived in Rouge City."

"I know this is an impertinent question, but whatever made a nice girl like you decide to live in a place like Rouge City?"

"I'm a writer; most of the time I copy write to support myself, but I do quite a bit of fiction writing on the side. Most of my stuff consists of morality tales of some sort, so I found a steady supply of inspiration in Rouge City."

"I can see that happening. But why not stick close to home? Westhillston seems like a fairly inspiring place."

Cecie wagged her head. "You know the line about a prophet not being honored in his own hometown? In my case, most of the folks around here just don't get my edgy but sensitive style. I wrote the kind of stuff people expected when I was a teenager. But losing your dad in a car accident when you're fourteen and losing your mother to cancer when you're nineteen does something to you. The Connellys are the only family I really have left, but even then, after all this craziness, I'm not even have them left."

Flyte nodded and blinked, the first time she'd seen him do that since they had come into the room.

"So, tell me a little about this edgy but sensitive style of yours?"

"When I was in my last year of high school, I entered a local writing contest, sent in a sketch about a sniper shooting Santa Claus, and then some developers moving in and building a resort at the North Pole."

"Goodness gracious! I can see why your stuff wouldn't be welcome around here. So, you write science fiction?"

"A little. I started off with fantasy stuff, y' know, the kind of stories girls in their teens write."

"Ever publish any of those?"

"No, some of them I destroyed: I read them later and found out how hopelessly bad they were."

The tech removed the tube of silicon and resealed Joe's dermis.

"Fixed," the tech declared, switching off his lamp. "You'd better stay put for an hour while that hardens, green eyes."

Jo sighed with calm resignation as Flyte unfastened the chain from around his own ankle and refastened it around the led of the bed.

"You want anything, Miss Martin?" Flyte asked as he led her into the front room. "Something to drink?"

"Just some ice water, please," she said, sitting down on the sofa. "I don't drink: especially not around Joe."

He half-filled a scotch glass with ice cubes and filled the glass from a water carafe. He brought it to her, then mixed himself a scotch and soda.

"Probably very wise on your part: you have your principles," he said, sitting down in the armchair opposite to her.

"So, what about you?"

"What about me?" he asked over the rim of his glass.

"Everyone has a story. I've told you most of mine, what about you?"

He shrugged. "There's nothing to tell really fit to tell."

She leaned closer to him. "You forget I've lived in Rouge City for too long to really be shocked by much."

"I'm an outcast like you; I basically decided when I was young that if no one wanted to accept my eccentricities, that I'd get as far away from polite society as I could. I went west to Nova Vegas, started out as a dealer in a casino; within fifteen years, I'd worked my way up to part owner of the same casino. Then when Rouge City was being built, I cashed in on that, bought three Mechas and started an agency. Ten years later, I've got fifty Mechas, own two casinos, and I'm one of the principle stockholders of Companionates of Pennsylvania."

"But you're such a gentleman. Anyone looking at you would never know you're…y' know…."

"A procurer of Mechas?"

"Around here they'd call you a pimp or a whoremonger."

"And what would they call you?"

"A pen-pusher or a professional liar. You're like him."

"Who?"

"Joe."

"What makes you say that?"

"You got that knack of turning the conversation around so you aren't telling much about yourself."

Flyte eyed her in silence a long while. "There's something you're holding back about our boy."

She dropped her gaze to the glass in her hands she held clasped between her knees.

"If I said it to you, you wouldn't laugh, would you?" she asked.

Flyte raised his right hand, two fingers extended, the rest curled. "On my honor, which isn't of much value to most people, but it's still honor."

She breathed deeply a few times, getting the oxygen flowing around her tingling brain neurons.

"I'm in love with Joe."

He nodded his head sagely. "You aren't the first woman to tell me that, and you will probably not be the last." He looked her full in the face, conviction in his dark eyes. "But you are the first one I believe."

"I am?"

"Yes. Because I can tell you don't love him for what he can do for you: you love _him_. You have more objectivity that all these women who've used him. Why? Because your head isn't clouded by pleasure memories of getting it on with him. am I correct?"

"Yes, you are."

It was her turn to be silent for a long time.

"Well, I have an early train to catch, so I'm turning in. Natterson and I have the other room with the new acquisition—which we switched off for security's sake. So, it looks like you'll have to share the room with Joe, unless you'd rather take the couch. You've nothing to fear from me: I'm too old to make a pass at you; never was much good at it any way."

"I'd feel more at ease in the same room with Joe."

He looked at her as he turned from the mini bar, an oddly misty light in his eyes. "I would have had a daughter your age. Werner's Syndrome got her when she was twelve." He shook his head, his eyes clearing. "Oh, don't let an old man's ramblings drive you crazy."

"At least I turned the conversation around, again."

He pointed at her, mock scolding. "Touché, girl," he grinned and headed for the other room.

She hesitated on the threshold of the master bedroom, looking in. Joe had moved from the bed to the chair at the foot, but he rose when Flyte entered

"I trust you kept busy during the past three weeks?" Flyte asked him.

Joe reached into a pocket under the lining of his coat, hidden in the skirts. "I picked up some business on the road up here." He drew out his hand and held out to Flyte a neatly folded bundle of Newbucks.

Flyte took the wad and counted it. "700 NB. Not bad considering you didn't have many roaming privileges." He pocketed the roll of bills. "So, aside from the Diocletian woman, where else did you pick up business?"

"Outside Albany, New York, Mr. Langier, Mr. Sweitz, Cecie and I lodged for one night in a motel. I must admit…I found several lonely hearts there."

"And you came through there without a scratch: there's a few anti-Mecha cells in that area."

"And there are none in Westhillston?"

"They're not as well organized here…. Well, you paid for your repairs and made a profit of…350 NB."

She rolled her eyes, hearing these transactions, and headed for the washroom.

She paused on the threshold of the larger of the two bedrooms. Her heart kept trying to beat harder than it should and she tried to breathe deeply to control it. She steeled her soul and entered the room; she sat down on the bed to which Joe was tethered. She didn't look at him as she took off her shoes and set the on the floor before she lay down on the bed.

"I have no control over what you two do," Flyte said, on his way out. "But remember I'm in the next room, so just keep it down so an old man can get his sleep."

Cecie lay curled on the bed, with just the light of the bedside lamp falling on her as she faced away from Joe. She heard the chain jingle and drag on the floor. She looked over her shoulder.

Joe climbed over the foot of the bed and sat there, his shackled foot hanging over the edge of the bed.

"Joe, please don't; you've caused me enough trouble."

"I heard your sigh. You know I was made to relieve the pain of wounded hearts."

"You know how to finish me off, you beast," she said, tearing up. She did not move as he laid himself down beside her. She meant to draw away, but instead she nestled back in his embrace as he slid one arm under her. She huddled her back against his chest.

He nuzzled the hairs on the back of her head, mussing it all out of place, then he started in on the fine hairs on the back of her neck, caressing the strands with his velvety lips.

"Please, Joe, I'm wasted. Stop that."

He ran his palms lingeringly down her front, from her waist to her thighs. "It is because you are wasted that I offer you this solace. And did I hear correctly what you said to Mr. Flyte?"

"What did you hear?"

"I heard you tell him that you love me." He nibbled her neck ever so gently.

"Stop that!"

"Why? You said that you love. Have you not always craved the fullness of my embrace, though you hid it well even from my eyes?"

"That's just it: you didn't hear what Flyte said about me."

"What did he say?"

"He said he believed me because I clearly love _you_ , not what you do for me."

"I do not follow this."

"Joe, I've hardly ever seen you as a machine, even when I saw you laid out on this bed with your insides exposed. I saw you as a man, only made of different materials. You have more good sense than a lot of men with carbon-based brains, and you show a lot more tenderness than many men with hearts made of muscle." She could feel his heart beat between her shoulder blades. She reached down and clasped his hands, holding them away from her.

They lay in silence for several minutes. The faint drone of components in Joe's torso nearly lulled her to sleep.

Cecie grew aware of a new sound in the next room. She sat up quickly and strained her ears. Yes, it came from the end wall, parallel with the head of the bed.

"Cecie, what is it?" Joe asked.

"I hear something, it's in Frank and Bernie's room." She dropped her feet to the floor and knelt at the wall. She heard the chain jingle as Joe got off the bed, but she heard it grunt as it tightened a foot away from her.

She pressed her ear to the wall: Raucous titters and yelps and what definitely sounded like protesting bed springs.

She turned her face to Joe. "Sounds like Frank's getting what he wanted and Bernie's getting what she needed."

"And I am not permitted any further part in this comedy," he said, with resignation.

She stepped away, sparing herself the bawdiest noises, but some she couldn't ignore.

Bernie's voice kept rising and rising in shrill delight. "Oh, Frank…oh no…oh my…Oh, joy! …Oh, bliss! …Oh, freedom!"

Joe let out a loud sigh, but Cecie turned her face away to hide—even in the dark, or he would see it—the triumphant grin that pricked the corners of her mouth.

"No matter," he said. "Let him fulfill well his role. But should there be anything lacking, I can amply provide for her."

"I think her days of wanting you are passed," Cecie said, going back to the bed.

She heard another sigh and the chain dragged across the carpet. The bed creaked in one corner and settled under Joe's weight as he seated himself there.

He did not draw near to her until heard her breathing fall into the gentle rhythm of sleep, and then he crept over to her side as he had lain before.

The alarm clock peeped at six. Flyte twisted his aging but strong frame and sat up to switch off the clock, one of these old-fashioned push-button affairs. He got up, slipped on his bathrobe, got his suitcase and headed for the washroom.

He peered into the other room on the way.

Joe and the Martin girl lay nested together, the girl with her face turned slightly into the pillow. Joe looked over his shoulder at him. Both had kept covered, but the girl had her consort's hands clasped to her body, just at her ribcage.

"You take care of her, son. You have a few minutes left with her before we're off, you and I and Natterson."

"Approximately how many?"

"Fifteen precisely." Flyte left them together.

Cecie stirred. Someone hummed Grieg's "Morning" in her ear, perhaps the same someone who held her in a gently fierce embrace. She turned over on her back and opened her eyes.

Her eyes cleared and met Joe's deceptively cool gaze. He adjusted to her as she turned over onto her back, keeping one arm under her body, holding her hands with the other hand.

"Good morning, Cecie."

"Good morning," she murmured.

"We have not many minutes left. Mr. Flyte wishes to leave soon—and he will be taking me with him." He lowered his face to her chest. "We can make it quick should you desire it."

"I just want you beside me." She covered his hand with one of hers. "This has been the wildest week of my life."

He looked up. "Was it not worth every second?"

"Yes, but you made it impossible in the end

He took her statement in silence. "Is it over?"

She looked at his face. "I don't know."

"If you say you love me, why then would you consider ending the affair so soon?"

"It's not because I _don't_ love you; it's because I don't know if it's possible to love someone like you this way, the way you need to be loved. I'm human; I'm weak. There's nothing to stop me from spreading my thighs right now and letting you have your way…except my conscience."

"Your actions are defined by your parameters," he said. She didn't argue with him. It was true, except that she, unlike he, could break free of her own overrides if she so chose. The idea tempted her…short and quick. …no, don't spoil it.

He turned up his face to her. "Yes or no?"

"No."

He retreated from her and sat up, but she held his hands firmly.

"What would you have me do?"

"Just stay here and be my friend."

"What am I to you?"

"My companion, my muse, more than my friend, less than my lover." She lifted a hand to his face and caressed his cheek. She glanced down his lean, graceful body, the sensuously trim lines of his torso tastefully visible under his garments. "How does it feel where they wounded you?"

"It disturbs me not longer."

"Good, I wouldn't want you to be suffering."

She leaned back her head and closed her eyes. "How often do you leave a client awake?"

"On an average, only one out of forty-three point five."

"That's a fairly high ratio…gosh, I could drop off right now."

"If you can no longer fight off the advances of sleep, you need not fear surrendering to them. I shall not be offended."

She obliged herself to stay awake by listening to sounds around them. She dimly heard Flyte, talking as if on a phone. "Hello, Vautrin? Yes, this is Flyte …Yes, I got our J-O 4379. Some idiots tried to put a restraining bolt on him. He's all right now. …Listen, take Alex off Joe's turf and put him over on Julien's, make things a little interesting over off Harlot Square. …Oh, and I just acquired a new unit, a female, a JN-8923, one owner, private use. I'll tell you the particulars when I get in. I'll talk at length then…Bye." He hung up the phone.

She realized something was up in the room that abutted theirs.

Loud laughter and other raucous noises arose from the other side of the end wall of the room. Joe looked over his shoulder with a disgusted crinkle to his whole face, as if he'd smelled something rotten.

"I have heard it said of me and a more ardent client 'do they ever stop?'" he said, clearly his way of saying, 'Will they pipe down in there?'

The noises subsided, but Cecie sensed it was only the calm before the storm.

"BERNADETTE!" Frank's voice cried, his voice cracking into a high alto.

Joe sighed, resigned to the situation.

Flyte emerged from the washroom, buttoning his vest. Joe rose to him; Flyte knelt, undid the end of the chain around the leg of the bed and fastened it around his own ankle.

"Are you ready?" he asked Joe.

"We were about to exchange our farewells, but," he squinted at the end wall. "We were disturbed by a sonorous interruption."

Cecie reached up with both hands. Joe took them in his. He gazed down at her, all reproach vanished, once more his tenderly ardent self.

"I just want to say, it was worth it," she said.

"Perhaps we shall have another excursion of this kind."

"I hope we do."

"Then you still desire me?"

"I still want the pleasure of your friendship, as far as you can give it."

He smiled at her in earnest. "That is all I needed to know." He leaned down to her and kissed her, in farewell, the kind of gentle caress he generally gave to a sleeping, satisfied customer before turning away. He ran one fingertip from her cheek down her jaw to her chin as he retreated.

"Goodbye, Joe; take care of yourself."

"Goodbye, Cecie; remember to look for me or ask for me by name when you return."

Joe stood up. Flyte put a hand behind his back and sent him on ahead, into the front room.

"You stay here as long as you need to," he said. "And thanks for taking care of him."

"I wish I'd done a better job of it."

"That'll do, girl."

He headed out after his Mecha and closed the door behind him. She turned over and closed her eyes.

She dozed for an hour, then she got up. She collected her things and went to Room 104. She knocked on the door.

"Hey, Frank, it's Cecie."

"Door's open," Frank's voice called out.

She pushed it open and went inside. She found Frank in his dressing gown, sprawled somewhat dazedly on the couch in the front room.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah…I haven't felt so good afterwards…in an awful long time," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I don't think I've ever felt this good."

"Where's Bernie?'

"In the bedroom, still asleep. I had to get out to clear my head. Woooo…rraOW!" He shook his head vigorously.

"That good after she was that stubborn."

"It was great," he said, dreamily. "It was bloody worth it." He looked around. "So where's metal boy, where's the robot who looks like me?"

"He's gone."

"Skipped out on you to find a lonely heart, eh?"

"No, Mr. Flyte left with him."

Frank sat up. "And you miss him already? You'll see him again soon enough, once you get back to You Know Where."

She leaned on the arm of the other chair. "I don't know if I can go back there."

"You belong there now. They don't want you here in this hick town."

"Until three weeks ago, this hick town was my home town that I could hardly wait to leave when I grew up. Now want to stay."

He stood up and approached her. "Hey, you made up you mind to live in the most God-forsaken city on the face of the earth. You're like Kip in that respect: you belong to that city now. That's neon gas flowing in your veins. This town is just too tame to hold you."

"I suppose you're right."

At ten, Cecie and the two couples finished loading their baggage into Kip's cruiser. As they were about to pile in, Peter's Buick pulled up beside them. Peter got out with Georgette and approached them. Peter looked a little sheepish.

"I'd like to conclude by apologizing to you all for the high and mighty way I've been acting all this time," he said. "It really hit me at Mass today, at the Gospel reading."

"Oh, why?" Kip asked.

"It was the part about the woman taken in adultery. 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone'. I realized I've been throwing boulders at all of you, including the fellow who barely knows the definition of sin. And I've judged you too harshly, too, Frank, Cecie; I didn't treat you any better. If Joe's around, I'd like to apologize to…him, too."

"Where is he?" Georgette asked.

"Mr. Flyte left with him earlier," Cecie said.

Frank shrugged with his free shoulder, his other arm around Bernie's shoulders. "Apology accepted. I've a lot worse treatment." He separated from Bernie. "There's one thing I'd like to report, but I can't say it in front of the ladies." He went up to Peter and whispered it in his ear. Peter back away, but he grinned foolishly.

"Well…I guess I can say…I'm glad she relented," Peter added, blushing.

"Hey, Frank, you can say it: nothing shocks two natives of Sin City, U.S.A.," Kip teased. "And we gotta toughen Phila up, too."

"None of your damned business, Kip," Frank snarled, grinning wickedly.

They set off, the five of them, the Langiers up front, Cecie in the back with the Sweitzes. Kip and Phila held hands part of the way, but frank and Bernie got a little more involved, not quite making out, but definitely trying to catch up on lost time.

The trip passed slowly for Cecie. Each mile they passed carried her one mile further from a town she didn't know she could still call home, and carried her closer to a city she didn't know she could call home either.

At Albany, Frank and Bernie went to find Frank's friend Hal McKeever's apartment; Hal was away, but he'd given the Sweitzes permission to borrow it until they had a place of their own. Cecie and the Langiers put up at a motel—the Blue Angel, no less.

"Hey, where's the cute Mecha you had with you last time you came through?" asked the frumpy bleached blonde in the office.

"Oh, his owner brought him back home," Cecie said.

"Damn, the fiberhead had the cutest a- too, for a fiberhead."

Next morning brought blue skies. They set out early in the day; by nightfall, they passed through Camden and across the Delaware over Exit 69. Phila pointed out the very spot where the brakes had failed on her cruiser.

"And thanks to those brakes failing, we met," Kip said.

To Phila, the city gates, in the shape of a giant woman's head draped in rose and blue neon seemed to be shouting a triumphant welcome. Cecie didn't know what to think: her journey was over.

She stayed to supper with the Langiers. Ellen and Mat had stuck around, looking after Irene, who was full of life.

"Your young friend came to call last night," she told Cecie. "He'd just got back with his employer: he tells me Peter Connelly got him into a tight place—literally."

"I guess I didn't take care of him like you told me to," Cecie said, sheepishly.

"No, it wasn't you, it was that Connelly and that Diocletian. Makes you wonder if the small towns aren't just as dangerous as Rouge City, if not moreso."

"Mo- _ther_!" Kip chided, grinning.

"No, Irene's right: Rouge City wears its corruption on its sleeve," Cecie concurred.

Late that evening, Cecie brought her bags up the long, neon-lit escalator to the Upper Deck. Just a few more gliding steps…She stepped back several times to prolong the last minutes before she emerged.

For an instant, when she stepped clear of the shaft, when she looked up, the light from the neon and the hologram advertising displays nearly blinded her, despite the fact that she wore her mirrorshades and the relentless cacophony of jazz and rock pulsing from the clubs around her deafened her. She almost turned and headed for the down escalator.

She blinked and all was right with her world.

 _That's neon gas flowing in your veins_ …

 _Remember to look for me or ask for me by name…_

Over the din of the backbeat and the racket of the crowds, she could hear a girl folksinger somewhere, singing an old Paul Simon song:

"Gee, but it's great to be back home,

Home is where I want to be,

I've been so long from home, my friend,

And if you came along I know you couldn't disagree.

It's the same old story

Ev'rywhere I go,

I get slandered, libeled,

I hear words I never heard in the Bible.

And I'm one step ahead of the shoeshine,

Two steps away from the county line,

Just tryin' to keep my customers satisfied, satisfied!"

Cecie dropped her bags and fell to the ground, kissing the polymer pavement, rubbing her face against its gritty surface. The crowds around her barely took note of her gesture.

She got up, her resolve reborn.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know: I'm HOME!" she screamed, joyous.

Cecie had a mountain of work waiting for her when she got back to her rooms in the Graceley. She holed up for a three weeks, working on it, jotting in her journal, working on Sarah's medieval knight in the modern age story. When she finished it, she emailed a copy of it to Sarah, who sent back a gushing but sincere review of it.

She hardly even glimpsed Joe during that time. She spotted Raymond Flyte in the back of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart Chapel at Mass on more than one Sunday in a row. It didn't surprise her that he abstained from Communion, but she noticed that he prayed with more reverence than she saw from a lot of people at St. Edith's in Westhillston.

Finally, in the middle of October, a month after her return, her workload let up and she went out one night to celebrate.

She met Raymond Flyte outside the Merchant Ivory club, just off Harlot Square.

"You've been hiding on us, girl," he said, only half-serious.

"I've been busy," she admitted. "I had a bunch of jobs come at once."

"I know that feeling: I've been training Jane for street work. I had to place her at the other side of the City: she and our boy have been trying to pursue each other behind my back, although I've caught them in the attempt only once, when they were waiting for inspection one morning. So I've considered selling her to a friend of mine in Haddonfield, the other side of the river."

"Anything to get her away from him," Cecie said. "I don't want to think about him and her together."

"I don't want to either: there's bound to be trouble down the road."

"Trouble how?"

"Oh, he might decide Orga women aren't good enough for him. His series has been known for idiosyncratic behavior, has to do with the kind of personality chips they put in 'em, so his behavior might modify but not for the best if Jane is around him much more."

"Not good for you. Or him for that matter. Is that why I haven't seen him on the streets that much?"

"No." Flyte tilted his head toward the etched frosted glass doors of the club. "You'll find him in there." He went away with a thin, mysterious smile on his face.

In accord with the studio that owned the worldwide chain (only twenty in sixteen countries), Merchant Ivory was a much more upscale establishment than most of the clubs in Rouge City, and accordingly, it was much more sedate, yet no less demi-mondaine.

The tables had cream-colored tablecloths, the seats of the gilded chairs were covered in wine-colored brocade, and the dappled green carpet underfoot felt soft as moss.

She told the silver-haired maitre d' that she was meeting someone and she preferred to seek him out herself, thank you.

She scanned the face of every Mecha waiter who passed through, carrying trays or decanters or what not. A graceful Viennese waltz melody wafted softly through the halls, played by a small salon orchestra.

The expensively clad diners eyed her warily, this angular creature in the black trenchcoat over a gray blouse and a black simuleather skirt with a side split up to the knee showing her calf-high boots with silver buckles up the sides. She ignored their gazes, but betrayed a mischievous disdain.

She went into the bar, a cozy semi-Edwardian nook with reproductions of Gainsborough landscapes hanging on the wall between the electric wall sconces dimmed to a level suggesting gas light. A few people sat at the bar. One knot of women at the far end seemed engrossed in a lively conversation with the bar tender.

Cecie sat down at the near end, taking in the polished green Connemara marble counter top, with the rows of wine bottles and clean glasses arranged to one side.

She heard movement. The bartender approached her. She could see only his neat, naturally tanned hands, folded on the edge of the counter top.

She recognized the platinum ring set with a single square onyx on his right little finger.

"Will you have your seltzer mimosa fifty-fifty or twenty-five/seventy-five?" he asked in a light tenor voice with a decided south London accent.

She looked up into a familiar pair of green eyes, which smiled at her as if to say, 'I know you could not stay away forever'.

He looked great—but then again, Joe always looked great.

"Actually," she said, hoisting herself up onto the counter, sitting on it and leaning across to him, "I was more interested in ninety-five percent of the bartender." She put her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. He quiesced gently, sliding his hands around her waist. She shifted position slightly, inadvertently knocking a glass off the counter and sending it crashing to floor. They hardly noticed.

They broke away. He narrowed his eyes at her. "And so you came back…on account of me?"

"You read my mind, you black peacock. Kiss me."

"As you wish." And he laid his lips over hers, despite the stares of the customers nearby.

The End…or is it?

Afterword:

This was almost more fun to write than "Runnin' Loose…", and I hope this lives up to its predecessor. I meant this to be a kind of morality tale, not really a tale with a moral, but a tale about morals and people (of flesh and of silicon alike): moral, immoral, and amoral. Coupled to this was a premise straight out of Kirkegaard: which is worse: to love the wrong person in the wrong circumstances the wrong way but with the right intention, or to fail to love the right person in the right circumstances the wrong way for all the wrong reasons? Who is more at fault: Cecie, who loves as a person someone who subjectively isn't human? Peter, who mistakes control for love, and bulldogs his family into rigidity? Diocletian, who puts his work ahead of his family and nearly loses his grip on what really counts? Allison, who only wants a cure for what ails her? Joe, who doesn't know anything better than his specific function, but who gives of himself without reserve?

Finishing this was a nightmare, since I didn't want to stop hangin' out with these characters. But as always, there is the promise of a sequel, currently going by the working title "The Shadows Beyond the Neon", a horror/mystery/comedy set in Rouge City during a rolling blackout, featuring Kip, Phila, Frank, Bernie, Cecie, Mr. Flyte, the twice-mentioned but as yet unseen Hal McKeever (very thinly based on Harlan Maguire, Jude Law's character in _Road to Perdition_ )…and of course a certain green-eyed love machine named Joe.

Literary Easter Eggs:

One arm under her body…-Compare this with the "Song of Songs": "His left hand under my head, his right hand caresses me" (Doaui-Rheims translation)

"BERNADETTE!"—Life imitated art! I was listening to the Golden Oldies station on the radio as I drafted this scene, and they played the song "Bernadette", my all time favorite by the Four Tops. So I just had to put in this reference (To the part where, after a pause of about three seconds, the lead singer hollers "BERNADETTE!" on pitch.).


End file.
